


Agent 28

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, SHIELD Agent Reader, Secret Relationship, one shots, puns galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 135,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: He’s a Soviet-trained assassin. You’re a secret agent. He has a thing for thigh holsters. You have a thing for his behind (who doesn’t?) But it’s all hush-hush. What shenanigans will the two of you get into to keep your affair concealed from the rest of the Avengers, all while you’re trying to save the world?





	1. Arms Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As an Agent of SHIELD, you’re sent to get an Avengers team out of trouble. Bucky left something behind. Sometimes it's hard to keep secrets...secret.

"All in all, not our best mission."

Three pairs of eyes swivel to glare at Sam. He doesn't really care. He's too busy looking around the room, trying to ignore the zip ties holding his wrists behind his back. No windows. Only one or two faint light bulbs above. Walls. An iron door, which had made a very loud  _clang_ when their captors locked them in.

"So, now that we've decided on the obvious," Barnes snaps at him, "How do we get out, bird brain?" Bucky's left arm is emitting sparks from the shoulder, where his metal arm had become detached (and, embarrassingly for him, lost) in the fray of infiltrating the facility - his remaining arm is clasped in a vibranium handcuff, which in turn is latched to one of the many vibranium pipes in the room. Which is little more than a water heater closet. Large enough for their voices to echo, small enough that Sam is trying not to feel nervous with his knees knocking into Barnes' and Natasha's. Stuck in a crawl space with two of the world's greatest assassins? Not exactly how he'd choose to spend his Saturday.

Steve, blood streaking down his face from a nasty head wound, has closed his eyes to rest his head against the closet wall. "I sent a distress signal to Stark," he murmurs now. "Help will come. Or Hydra will trip up and we'll kick 'em back."

"That'll go well," Nat says sarcastically, shaking her sweaty, grimy hair from her face. "Since we did so great the first time, when we had our weapons and Barnes had both arms."

"We've been in worse situations than this," Steve says testily. "We'll make it out."

"How did Hydra get their hands on this much vibranium, anyway?" Sam wonders aloud.

"Do you think we'll get bathroom breaks?"

"Stark is taking his time on purpose," Bucky complains with a grunt. "As soon as I get my hands - er, hand on him - "

"Shh!" Steve says suddenly, lifting his head. He's a little cross-eyed, but alert. "Listen."

And all four inhabitants of this Hydra plumbing closet tilt their heads to obey.

This isn't the first Hydra base you've been in, and in all likelihood, it probably won't be the last.

It makes the trip down the long, concrete corridors a little more dull, and little less adrenaline-worthy. With your rifle tucked into the crook of your shoulder, you lift a hand to press the com device in your ear to lower the volume of babbling voices. You're hooked into Hydra's frequency - and from what you hear of their conversations, your path is clear. They don't know their security's been breached yet. You jerk your head to the agents beside you. They give short nods, and double back to keep watch.

You stride forward, eyes sweeping the corridors. Stark's tech may say there's no one there, but you trust your own senses more. A trilling beep cuts through the air, and you dig into your pocket for the sensor Tony had arranged for you. It's flashing blue. You're close.

Following the growing frequency of the beeps, you take a left hand turn and then a right. The sensor is making a low whine now, and you stop in front of an iron door. Well,  _that_ obstacle hadn't been in the mission briefing.

Frowning, you heave your rifle back over your shoulder where the strap is slung. You have a better tool for opening doors. Over your opposite shoulder is hanging the metal arm you've been carrying since you found it outside the bunker - you grasp the wrist and pull it forward, holding the scrunched fingers to your eye level, trying to remember….oh, yes. You pry open the tip of the fourth finger, and lower it to fit snugly into the port on the security keypad outside the door. It starts to beep. The light turns green. And -

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Uh oh. Hydra guards - running towards you from the left, drawing guns. Quick as a wink you grab the pistol at your hip, and a succession of gunshots later the guards are sprawled on the ground. You flick the safety back on, and put it back in its holster at your side.

Time to go.

The door gives a  _ding_  as it unlocks, and the iron grinds and groans as it begins to open. Very slowly. You rest a hand on your hips, the metal arm propped on your shoulder as you wait, not-so-patiently.

"Alarm's going to sound. ETA?" comes a crackling voice on your com.

"Got 'em," you say, striding into the tiny room as you blink in the dim light. "Give me five."

"Over and out, Agent."

You stare down at the huddled group on the ground. Captain America, Black Widow, Falcon, and the Winter Soldier. All tied up, all looking varying degrees of grateful and annoyed at your appearance.

"Hi," you say.

"Hey, you found Tin-man's arm!" Sam laughs. "Good one."

"It's how I got in," you tell him casually. "Thanks for leaving it outside for me, Sergeant. Like following a trail of breadcrumbs."

Bucky glares at you from where he's slumped by a pipe. He's a bit grimy - they're all a bit grimy - and frankly, the sight is making your lips twitch with laughter.

"Can I have it back?" he growls at you.

"Hmmm," you pretend to think, tucking the metal limb under your arm as you crouch down beside Sam to cut open the zip ties around his wrist. "I'll think about it."

"Finders keepers," Sam says with a laugh, rubbing his wrists. He moves over to Natasha with your knife to help her, and you put the code-breaking, very-handy-at-unlocking-things port from Bucky's metal finger into the fancy handcuffs imprisoning Steve. They fall to the ground with a clatter, and you give him a hand to help him stand. He looks the worst off of the bunch.

"You okay?" you ask Steve. He nods in return, taking a breath as he holds himself upright, swaying slightly. Then he steadies himself.

"I'll make it out," he says.

"Good. Are  _you_ alright?" you ask, taking the two steps to Bucky's side.

"Yeah, he's  _all right_ ," Sam calls, sniggering.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Bucky growls a low warning in his chest.

"Give me my arm back," he mutters at you.

"I dunno, Sergeant. This is pretty  _hand_ -y," you muse, inspecting the metal arm carefully. "I'm thinking I might keep it." But first, you open Bucky's handcuff with it, and he stands with a groan until he's towering over you, his blue eyes shooting sparks. It has all the promise of a good stand-off, but the report from your agents pulls you back to reality.

"We gotta go," you say briskly. "Follow me."

"My  _arm_  - " Bucky tries to say.

"Quickly!" Setting off at a jog back down the corridors, the rest of them fall in behind you. It's necessary to sidestep the bodies you left there - distantly you hear Natasha making an impressed sound. You twist Bucky's arm so that it's slung over your shoulder again, reaching for your rifle. At the next corner you pause, glancing this way and that. No sign of activity. You motion to go down the west hallway.

When your little group makes it finally to the first set of doors out of the bunker, you find the agents that accompanied you there, waiting. One is holding his arm, likely wounded, but there are about a half-dozen Hydra goons on the floor. Very good. Your comrades fall in.

A Quinjet is waiting outside, cloaked, and the pilot lowers the gangway as several pairs of feet clatter on up.

"Back home, please," you tell the pilot. Finally out of breath, you tug off your helmet, tossing it aside as you stride to the front of the jet.

"My  _arm_ , Agent," Bucky's cold voice sounds behind you. You glance carelessly over your shoulder - he's standing a few paces behind you, holding out his remaining hand expectantly. Holding his gaze for a tantalizing moment, your lips curl into a smile.

"Mission spoils," you tell him. And then you sink into the co-pilot's chair, bringing the detached arm over to rest on your lap. Bucky's growl is audible over your fingers tapping lightly on the metal.

The engines whir, and the scenery disappears below as the jet takes flight. But the serene moment ends sooner than you would have liked.

Every one of your hairs stands on end as you feel a large, looming figure bend over you. Bucky, his face only a inch away from yours, is reaching forward to flip some switches. You feel a hot blush spreading across your skin like wildfire as a monitor descends from the ceiling, with the words  _Calling Tony Stark_  blinking blue.

"What are ya going to do with it, anyway?" Bucky's voice is barely more than a breath away from your ear.

"I haven't decided yet," you murmur back. "Something intriguing, I'm sure."

"I liked when you barged into the facility wielding my arm," he says, barely audible. "It was...a surprising turn-on."

"Does that mean I get to keep it?" You glance up at him, smirking at the fire building in his eyes. But he says nothing.

A tense moment, and he unhooks the monitor to take back to the rest of the team.

Your heart is racing, and you take a deep breath of non-Bucky smelling air to steady yourself. The pilot hadn't noticed that exchange, had he? You glance over at him, but he appears as neutral as ever. Quickly you scramble to your feet, running your fingers through your hair to hopefully disguise how riled up you are.

On the monitor Tony is already chewing out the team, who are huddled on a bench. The usual spiel - how could they be so careless, reckless, etc.; they should've waited for the rest of the Avengers to help, etc. etc.

"I can't get you out of these messes every time," Stark snaps. "It's a little annoying, ya know?"

"You're in Cabo, Tony," Natasha points out dryly.

"And I made the right phone calls," he retorts. "If it wasn't for me, you'd still be stuck - wherever you were."

"Cuffed to pipes," Sam says.

"Yeah - handcuffed to pipes. No more barging into unknown Hydra facilities until I'm back from vacation, okay?"

The team is collectively squirming. No one likes being chewed out by Tony Stark. Not even you - but you do like knowing you're not on the chopping block  _this_ time. Finally, Steve answers, "Fine, Tony. We'll wait to get cuffed again until you're with us."

"Yes, we know how much you like that," Nat adds.

"That's what I like to hear." The video call ends on that note. An awkward silence follows as Steve clears his throat.

"Thanks for getting us out," he says to you. "We appreciate it."

"Thank you for saying thank you, Steve," you say airily. "I'm waiting to hear it from the others."

"Thank you, Agent. Your entrance was timely, as ever," Natasha says with a wink. She has pulled out a first aid kit from above, dabbing at a cut on her face with a wipe.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam chimes in, grinning broadly as always. "I don't think I could've lasted much longer in that tiny room with Tin-man." This earns him a glare from Bucky. You tap your foot, drawing all eyes back to you.

"Well?" you address Bucky.

"What?" he asks roughly.

"Aren't you going to thank me?"

Oh, how you love to torture the man. He's glaring at you through narrowed eyes, and the tips of his ears are red. Holding your gaze for a moment, he finally grinds out between his teeth, "Thank you for saving our butts, Agent."

"You're welcome," you coo. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Are you seriously keeping that arm?" Sam asks as Bucky slumps on the bench. "That sounds unsanitary."

You shrug. "Might be when I'm done with it." Natasha snorts, and you bring the heavy arm back to your face. Carefully you adjust the fingers into a pointing position, and you cross your eyes comically as you jab it towards your nose. Let  _that_  turn him on.

Sam, bless his sense of humor, laughs uproariously at this - even Steve and Nat give appreciative chuckles, and Bucky is glowering so heatedly in your direction that you wonder that the floor of the jet hasn't melted beneath your feet.

"I'm going to get you back for that," Bucky rumbles in a growl.

"I'd like to see you try." You twirl the arm around so that the index finger is pointing accusingly at his nose. "Serves you right for dropping it in the first place. How clumsy do you have to be to lose  _your own arm_?"

"It's detachable," he protests. "It's not like - a  _real_ arm."

"Still harder to snatch than a gun - and how many guns did you have wrenched from your hand, exactly? Hmm?" you raise your brows, and Bucky scowls back.

"None," he admits. "None until after they got Steve and we were forced to surrender."

"Well, there you go." You give him another shrug. "Anyways, it'll come in useful, I think. I'm less likely to lose my weapons than you, in any case."

Sam chuckles at this, and you quickly spread out the metal fingers and offer them to him - he gives the metal hand an enthusiastic high-five. Bucky's jaw is twitching. You flash him a cheeky smile, and take the monitor from Steve back to the front of the jet.

"She's got your number, Buck," you hear Steve say as you walk away. You don't catch what Bucky says in reply, but you're feeling very smug as you take your seat again.

* * *

Late summers in New York City are _hot_. Your apartment doesn't have air-conditioning, which, that night, is completely detestable. Sprawled out and face down on your rumbled bed, you listen to the distant honks of traffic below as you try to concentrate on the air the overhead fan is lazily swirling about. Still, beads of sweat are sticky on your neck and back.

You lift your head to glance at your alarm clock before letting it fall back to the pillow with a sigh. 12:14 a.m. You'd returned from the mission not four hours ago, and you were ready to sink into delicious sleep. If only it could be just a few degrees cooler…

There's a swoosh and a gentle thud on the balcony outside your window. Lips curling into a smile, you peek open an eye to watch as a misshapen shadow begins to pry open the window with a soft whine. Then the figure folds itself to enter, and the familiar, heady scent swirls into your senses, making you sigh again and your heart to thump in anticipation.

He knows you're not asleep, of course. But that doesn't stop you from pretending. You lay utterly still, breathing deeply, as you feel the bed dip as he crawls above you. You hear his own ragged breaths, his legs flanking yours, and feel the light brush of his hair as he leans his head down to yours.

"You're late," you murmur before he can speak. He gives a laughing huff.

"It's a bit harder to scale buildings with only one arm, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Buck - is it?"

With a smile, you twist beneath him so that you're lying on your back, gazing up at him. He's on all fours trapping you in, (merely a figure of speech - as technically he is on all  _threes_ ), his expression full of mirth and annoyance and fiery fondness - pretty typical for when he's looking at you when no one else is around.

"Where is it?" Bucky asks in a whisper, nudging your nose with his.

"Where is what?"

"My arm, you goose."

"Oh - that."

"Yes,  _that._ " Exasperated, Bucky rests his weight on his elbow by your side. You surmise that if he had both arms, you might be in a little trouble for your teasing. But he doesn't have both arms, and that makes you a tad more confident.

"It's here," you allow.

"Where?"

"Hereabouts."

His brows draw together, and you bite your lip to keep from giggling. "Babe…" Bucky growls in warning. "I'm not leaving without my arm."

"Well, that's fine. I don't want you to leave." You trace along his jawline with your fingers, loving the warmth and the stubble. And the smile that flickers on his lips as his heated eyes roam over your face hungrily. "I almost gave us away today," you confess with a rueful smile. "I was going to offer to wrestle you for your arm. But I thought that Sam might read between the lines and jump to the conclusion that we've been secretly seeing each other for eight months."

Bucky blinks. Then a broad grin grows on his face. "Wrestle?" he repeats. "You want to wrestle for it?"

"It was just an idea - "

"You don't have a chance, babe," he chuckles. "Whether I have one arm or two."

"Well," you lift your shoulders slightly, as best you can, buried as you are in your soft bedding. "Be as cocky as you want, Bucky, but I just think you're completely…' _armless_."

He blinks at you again. Then his eyes close as he winces, and he lets out a long, loud groan as his weight collapses on top of you. Your laughter turns to a wheeze as the breath is crushed out of your lungs.

"No more puns, I beg of you," he mutters into your neck, where he has buried his face, nuzzling into the sensitive skin there. "I nearly knocked Sam out tonight. He just won't stop! That's why I need my arm back. To stop the teasing as soon as humanly possible."

"And what will you say when you have your arm back in the morning?" you ask in a murmur. You like his touches. "And everyone wants to know how you got it from me in the middle of the night?"

Bucky lifts his head, resting it in his palm as his eyes sweep across your face. "I could say you had a change of heart, and sent it by drone."

"Stark tracks incoming and outgoing drones from Avengers Tower. He'll know it's a lie."

"Then...I can say you came by before work to drop it off."

"Visitors are tracked, too, and Steve gets up every morning at six," you remind him. "I'm not going to beat that to prove your lie."

"Hmm." His blue eyes, magnetizing as they are, don't distract you entirely from his thick thigh nudging between your knees. You lift a brow, and a smile tilts his lips. "I could say I won it from you in a wrestling match," Bucky teases.

Before you can retort, he drops onto his back on beside you, swinging you upwards with his strong legs so that you're straddling his hips. Breathlessly you laugh, lowering your head until your lips are a hair's breadth from his.

"There's a reason we're a secret, Buck," you murmur into his mouth, tangling your fingers into his sprawled hair on the pillow.

"I know, babe." His voice is low, and his fingers are running through your hair. Shivers break out along your spine, and a moan falls from your lips before you can stop it. You straighten, sitting upright and trying to catch your breath. His fingers start to trail across your throat, and down between your breasts...there's blue fire smoldering in Bucky's eyes, and you can feel the heat of summer warping into a different kind of heat.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then, his voice gravelly and hoarse, Bucky says, "Why don't you return my arm to me, and I can make it worth your while."

"I hope you can be worth my while, arm or not," you sass back.

"Is that a challenge, Agent?"

"Yes."

Immediately Bucky shifts his body again, and you're pushed back into the mattress as he positions himself between your legs. His hand is working its way down your back, tracing the curve of your waist. As you clasp your arms around his neck, breathing in his breaths as his head lowers, you can feel every tantalizing second as his fingers sink into the flesh of your buttocks, dragging you closer to him. Finally, his lips are on yours, tasting at first, then devouring - and his hips roll into yours as a whimper forms in your throat.

"So this is what you want." Bucky pulls back, still holding you, but his eyes dancing as he smirks down at you. You refuse to blush. "What the price, then, babe? What do you want for my arm?"

"Just you." You let your fingers trace the muscles of his chest, unfortunately still hidden beneath his dark shirt. "Make love to me, and I'll decide if you can have your arm back."

"I'd like that in writing."

"I don't have a pen."

"Then how am I supposed to know if you'll keep your word?"

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, hiding a grin. "When have I ever lied to you, Bucky?"

"Well, never, but - "

You place your index finger on his lips, stopping his words. His eyes glint down at you. No more teasing - you pull his face to yours again, kissing him fiercely as his hips grind into yours again, and swarms of sensuous heat make you forget why you'd been teasing him in the first place.

An hour or so later, drowsiness finally begins to weigh down your limbs. You watch in the darkness from your bed as Bucky kneels down beside the bed to reach for his arm hiding beneath it - you had, of course, eventually told him where you'd stashed it. He stands to attach it back to his shoulder with a wince, which you watch through slitted eyes, smiling slightly. Metallic whirs gently fill the air as he rolls his shoulder. Bucky's dark silhouette just visible in front of the window as tugs his clothes back on. Regrettably.

You yawn as his footsteps come near. He's beside you again, affectionately showering kisses to your cheek as you try to push him away.

"I'm sleeping," you tell him irritably.

"Well, that was suspiciously fast. Aren't you going to tell me goodbye?"

" _Goodbye_ , Bucky."

"Thank you for my arm, babe."

"Go home," you tell him with another yawn. "You need your sleep, too."

He strides over the window, gently sliding it open. With one leg hooked outside, he turns back to winking before disappearing entirely. You smile to yourself as your heavy eyes close, listening as he drops from the second-floor balcony to the sidewalk below.

Your last thought before drifting to sleep is whether the team will believe whatever garbage story Bucky tells them about how he got his arm back from you in the middle of the night.

Huh. Oh well.


	2. Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I've gone on and written several more one shots for this Agent 28 character. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> This chapter is how Agent 28 and Bucky met. The ones that come next will be totally out of order and open to timeline interpretation.

"And  _then_  she said to me, _I think that cat is judging us for being stupid_. Backed straight out of the alley then, and it hissed after us until we started running. Never did find out if the money was stored there. Guards cats are pretty effective, when it comes down to it."

The elevator dings. The joke between Bucky and Steve ends on twin chuckles, their attention shifted to the doors as they slide open. The elevator is not empty. Bucky is surprised. Steve, less so.

"Morning, Nick," Steve says easily, taking a step inside. Bucky follows behind, giving Nick Fury a nod and a once-over to the woman beside him. She doesn't respond. Doesn't even look his way.

"Morning, boys. Nice to see you out early for recon prep."

"What recon?" Bucky makes the mistake of saying. He grunts as he feels Steve's elbow in his side.

"Where's Romanoff?" Nick asks, as if Bucky hadn't said anything.

"She's already underground, sir," the unknown woman answers.

"Good."

"I'm Steve," Steve says, and offers his hand to the woman. She takes it, a polite but distant smile flitting on her lips.

"Agent 28." Her eyes flicker to Bucky, but he says nothing. With a raised brow her hand drops to her side where a holster is strapped around her thigh.

He doesn't trust himself to introduce himself when he's thinking about that thigh holster. The brand. If it's too tight. If it could hold anything larger than the Glock 19 she's carrying. How sexy it is. What her name actually is, because he's pretty sure that modern parents don't name their kids numbers. Not entirely sure, though.

"She's my best agent," Nick is saying, and Bucky reverts his gaze to the closed elevator doors with burning ears.

"Nonsense, sir," she replies. "You told Natasha that just last week, and I know for a fact you told Barton he was your best agent at last year's holiday party. He brings it up every other time I see him."

Steve snorts. Bucky finds himself clenching his fist in the pocket of his jeans. Fury is apparently unconcerned by getting called out, and shrugs.

"Either way, she's been on this case since we got it three months ago. She'll be running the recon today."

"Looking forward to it," Steve says. Bucky senses the shifting weight of the woman, and he hears the lightness in her voice.

"You might be changing your mind about that."

An omen.

The tac room is underground Avengers Tower. Once the doors ding open to reveal a long hallway, Fury says something about speaking to Stark and punches the buttons as the other three climb off. Bucky slows his pace to follow the woman, who strides ahead. At the end of the hallway, Natasha is leaning against the wall, but she perks up when their footsteps draw closer.

"About time," Natasha says. "Hey, 28. I got the stuff you asked for. Told the boys yet?" And she falls into step beside the woman. Clearly they're aquained. Bucky wonders why Tasha has never mentioned Agent 28 before.

"Nope," Agent 28 replies. "Figured the sooner I tell them, the more complaints I'll hear."

"This doesn't sound good," Steve interrupts.

"It's not."

Compared to the hall, the gear room is bright. Rows of vests, coats, weapon holsters, and various items for disguises are neatly lined on the wall. A few outfits are laid out on a table, and Bucky glances in trepidation at the chairs sitting empty in front of a mirror. He's been in here before - he remembers the day Clint Barton was sat in one of those chairs and his hair shaved off because some evil scientist goo had gotten in it. That had been a bad day for Clint. Great day for Bucky, though.

"Sit," the woman says. Steve is quick to obey, with a trepidated glance at Bucky. He knows what it means:  _If we're going to get messed up, at least we'll be messed up together, right?_  Bucky struggles to have the same confidence. He sits beside Steve, glancing back towards the open door in case he needs to make a hasty exit.

"Did you read the briefing I sent over?" Agent 28 asks, rummaging through a tub of...barber supplies. Bucky stiffens.

"Oh, yeah," Steve assures her. "Recon at a coffee shop for a suspect dealing in chemical warfare for Libya. We just need to find out who he's meeting, and potential locations for any deals, right?"

"Right."

She pulls out a buzz cutter. Holding it in her hand like a weapon (which to Bucky, it looks very much like one at the moment), she turns to steady meet their eyes, the opposite hand on her hip.

"Here's the deal," she says shortly. "I can tell you two are ready to bolt, so I'll speak plainly. If the Avengers show up to a coffee shop all sitting together, the suspect won't show. If the Avengers all show up to a coffee shop and  _don't_  sit together, the suspect won't show. You get my meaning? Anyone with half a brain will know what you look like, and anyone guilty will bolt at the first sign of trouble."

"We've done recon before," Steve says, unwisely. "We can - "

But Agent 28 interrupts him. "Believe it or not, a baseball cap and sunglasses are not the height of secrecy. I'm in charge of this mission, and I won't let it go south because a coupla boys are afraid to cut their hair. Hair grows back. Got it?"

"Got it," Steve mumbles. Bucky is still staring at the woman. Trying not to look at her thigh holster.

"Got it," he says hoarsely after a moment.

She starts on Steve. Clumps of golden hair fall to the ground, and Bucky swallows. Several minutes later, she turns off the buzz cutter, fluffing up the short ends of Steve's hair as he stares in the mirror.

"Not bad," he admits. "You a hairdresser?"

"Only by necessity." A smile grows on her face, and Bucky blinks. It's a very nice smile. Maybe a little wild, a little feral. But he'd be lying if he said it didn't intrigue him more.

Oh, no. She's going to cut his hair.

"Nat has some clothes for ya laid out," Agent 28 tells Steve. "Go on over and get dressed."

"What about Nat? Is she cutting her hair too?" Bucky blurts, before he can stop himself. The woman steps over to his chair, buzzer still in hand. He gulps.

"Natasha is going to wear a wig," she informs him, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Well, why can't I wear a wig?" Bucky sounds like a petulant child, and he knows it.

"Because your hair is long already," Agent 28 explains patiently. "If we put a bald cap on you and some shorter wig, it's going to look goofy. Believe me."

"And what about you?"

"I don't need a disguise," she says at once. "SHIELD has an algorithm to delete all footage of me from public and private security cams. No one knows what I look like."

"Really," Bucky says, only half-believing.

"Not all of us feel the need to take credit for our dirty work, Sergeant," Agent 28 gives him a smirk in the mirror, and Bucky nearly falls out of his chair. Damn. What  _is_ it about her -

She flips on the buzz cutter. Bucky flinches, and holds up his hand in desperation. "Wait! Wait. There's got to be another way."

She turns it off. "Afraid of a haircut?" she teases.

"Well - maybe."

"How old are you again?"

"Ha, ha," Bucky says sarcastically, though he's struggling not to grin. "Come on. You do this a lot. There has to be other options. Please don't cut my hair. Anything else. Just don't cut it."

Agent 28 bites her bottom lip. Bucky tries not to stare, and fails. She has very pretty lips. Then at last she sets down the buzz cutter on the counter, and reaches over for a comb instead.

"Fine," she says, and starts to drag it through his hair. Immediately goosebumps break out across his scalp, and Bucky forces back a moan of pleasure. He must be looking a little strained, because she lifts a brow at him in the mirror. "But this is your choice. You can't complain about it."

"Okay," Bucky mumbles. He won't be complaining yet - it feels too good to have her fingers in his hair.  _Way_  too good. It's like a massage, really. In fact, he's so lulled that he doesn't realize what she's doing until he watches through a daze as she pulls a hair tie off of her own wrist to secure his hair...in French braids.

"Er," he says, jolting from his stupor.

"All done. Your clothes are back there," Agent 28 says, jerking her thumb backwards. She's smiling way too broadly - she's enjoying this. She's enjoying the consternation Bucky must be exuding. With a narrowed glare her way, he slowly stands from the chair to wander over to Nat and Steve. Still she smiles.

"What's this look called again?" Steve asks Natasha, twisting slightly to look at himself.

"Ah, 'never grew out of punk rock phase to spite Mom'," Nat replies. Bucky grimaces - it's not a good look, whatever it is. Poor Steve. But then his amusement is cut short as he sees the pile of stuff for him.

"The point is to blend in," Agent 28 says, coming from behind. "This coffee shop is popular amongst the odder end of folks. Get dressed, Sergeant. Nat, can I help you put on your wig?"

"Bossy," Bucky mutters to himself as the girls go off. Steve glances over, a grin growing on his face as Bucky rifles through the pile of black leather and chains. Luckily Steve doesn't say anything, and Bucky tugs off his nice, soft t-shirt to don some scratchy black top. And studded belt. His black jeans and boots are good enough, he decides. And the leather jacket isn't so bad. The necklaces are bad, though.

"No guns!"

Bucky jumps, and freezes, Glock halfway into his pants pocket. He can feel Agent 28's glare on his back, and slowly, retreats and lets his gun clatter onto the table. Steve is struggling not to laugh. Bucky glares.

Ten minutes later, they're nearly ready to go. Natasha is dressed in a miniskirt and tall boots, with black hair that falls to her hips. Since Bucky knows her, he finds it a kind of scary look. Agent 28 is wearing a flowy skirt and top, with a bandana in her hair.

"Starving artist," she explains, then jerks her head toward Nat. "Daddy issues."

"We look ridiculous," Steve says.

"No more ridiculous than anyone else there. We'll blend in." Agent 28 casts a look around the group; Bucky tries not to flinch under her gaze, but probably doesn't manage. Then her brows crease. "I forgot about your hand," she says irritably. Walking over to the buckets of accessories, she digs through as she speaks. "It's a bit suspicious to wear gloves in the middle of summer, so...I know Stark has something in here somewhere…"

And a minute later she pulls out a floppy, flesh-colored thing. "Lube, Nat," she orders. Bucky's eyes widen, but Agent 28 is nothing but smug smiles as she returns, spreading out the limb...thing. Oh. It's a hand.

"Steve and I will head out now," Natasha says, plopping a bottle of lube on the table. "Space out our entrances."

"Got the address?"

"Yep."

"See you there."

Talking in low voices, Nat and Steve leave the room in their ridiculous clothes. Bucky stares wistfully after them for a moment, and then turns back to the other woman. And jolts, and the cold lube hits his hand.

"You wanna rub it in, or shall I?" she asks, eyes flickering with mischief.

"Um - I will." Bucky swallows and tries to be nonchalant about it. Not an easy thing which his stomach tightening. When his metal hand is appropriately...moistened...Agent 28 holds up the limb hand and he slides his fingers easily inside. It squelches in a very awkward way. He flexes his fingers, staring. They look pretty fake. But less fake than metal, probably.

"It won't short circuit, will it?" she asks.

"No. I can get my arm wet, you know," Bucky tells her dryly, glancing up with a smile he can't resist. "Showers and everything."

"Is that so?" Agent 28 teases back. "I would've thought you'd wear a shower cap up to your shoulder."

"Haven't done that yet."

"Too bad. Sounds fun."

"Fun? How old are you again?"

She purses her lips together in a show of annoyance at his joke. But Bucky guesses that she doesn't mind - her eyes are alight, and a little blazing. They leave the room in silence.

Coffee shop frequented by hipsters. Well, she hadn't been wrong. Bucky sips his coffee from a seat at the front bar, glancing around the crowd, strewn in morning sunlight and chattering way too loudly for a Thursday at 10 a.m. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha pretending to text by the bathroom doors, Steve at a window seat. Agent 28 is behind him somewhat, near the entrance.

It's been an hour. When is the guy supposed to show up again? Bucky very much wants to ask this agent, but they aren't wearing coms. And he suspects that if he addresses her when they're supposed to be reconning, she'd bite his head off.

The thought is appealing, admittedly.

Natasha's eyes flick upwards. Steve quickly picks up his coffee for a drink. Agent 28 coughs slightly, and Bucky stiffens in his seat.

Target in sight.

The man heads to the front counter to order. Bucky's closest now, and he listens as he orders coffee. Nothing suspicious so far. But the way-too-high-tech briefcase for the West Village is a bit of a giveaway.

A scent of flowery warmth fills his nostrils, and he stiffens again. Agent 28 is sliding nonchalantly into the seat next to him, reaching over for a little packet of creamer.

"He's being followed," she says, so quietly that anyone without super-hearing probably wouldn't be able to hear. Bucky tilts his chin down to show that he understood. He clenches his empty cup in his hand, standing smoothly and striding towards the trash can near the door. Two bulky men are hovering, just inside as their eyes scan the crowd. The hair on the back of Bucky's neck stands on end, and slowly he tosses his garbage away.

He returns to his seat. Agent 28 has swiveled around, facing the crowd of the shop with a disinterested stare. But Bucky can see the pulse beating in her neck. She's on edge. Which accounts for his surprise when she meets his eyes with an enormous smile, and a loud, " _Darling_."

So that's what they must be doing now. Bucky smiles in return, a little stiffly, and obligingly takes her hand when she reaches for him. He senses Natasha near them, getting into line behind the target. And Agent 28 draws him near, so that he's standing between her legs, towering over her in her seat.

Bucky gulps. He's not sure why his knees won't stop shaking. Sternly he berates himself,  _You didn't go through super-serum experimentation and decades of brainwashing to lose control of yourself over a woman. Pull yourself together, Barnes!_

It doesn't help.

She smiles, as if aware of his inner turmoil, and that she's the cause of it. "We need to extract the target," she says softly. And then louder, "Whaddya say to heading back home?"

"Anything you say, love." Bucky tangles his fingers with hers, keeping them steady. Her gaze is very hard on his face, and then her eyes flicker behind him. The shout from Steve and the icy determination filling Agent 28's face come at the same time. Bucky tenses - there's a gunshot, he hears Natasha grunt and a crash, and suddenly Agent 28 is hiking up her skirt, drawing her Glock (from that really commendable thigh holster around her now-bare leg), as she aims around Bucky and fires. The recoil shakes him a little, since she braced herself against his bicep.

There's a sudden tent in his pants.

Screams. Glass crashing. A ping of a bullet on his metal arm. He can feel the heat of it, and winces. Then, as suddenly as the chaos started, the shop is quiet.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts (no more than 6 or 7 seconds could have passed) Bucky swivels to see...Natasha, lying on the target on the ground. Both unharmed, and a little shaky. Steve, clutching his arm as blood seeps between his fingers, and the two bulky men lying still on the ground. One shot. One taken care of...Steve Rogers-style. Bucky grins to himself.

"I thought you said no guns," he says as an aside, as Agent 28 flicks the safety back on, and puts the gun back in its holster.

"I said no guns for  _you_ ," she clarifies, with a little dimple forming around her smirk as she smoothes down her skirt to cover herself more modestly.

"But you can have one?" he asks.

"I always have one."

"I like preparedness in a woman."

She merely lifts a brow in return, but Bucky sees interest in her eyes as she slides off the stool. Heads are beginning to poke back up from beneath tables, and Steve offers a hand to Nat to help her stand. The target scrambles to his feet.

"I'll take him back to SHIELD," Agent 28 says, picking up the man's briefcase in one hand and grasping his arm in the other. "When we have the intel, I'll contact you for the follow-up."

Stepping on broken glass, she begins to wind towards the door. But as Bucky stares after her, she glances back over her shoulder with a smile. Just for him.

"Make sure things get cleaned up. And take off your disguises before you address any press." And she's gone out the door. Bucky is speechless, but only for a moment. Sighing, he turns to Steve beside him.

"I don't think she likes me much. Always telling me what to do," he says regretfully. But it's Natasha that answers.

"Nonsense; that's just how she shows that she cares. Steve, go get your arm looked at. You're bleeding out."

* * *

It's impossible to ever stop being an agent. Even tucked up in bed that night, trying to read a fantasy novel, your ears attune themselves to the sound of New York City traffic outside your window. The honks. The screeches. People calling out to each other.

You can almost pretend the noise is dragons fighting goblins.

There's a soft swoosh, right outside your window. A thud on the balcony. Unmoving - you don't want to give yourself away - you feel your heart begin to race as your hand slides under your pillow for a gun. The window is slid open, slowly.

And you'd thought that living on the second story was high enough that you didn't have to lock your windows. You deserve a burglar or two for that idiocy. Grasping the handle of your gun, you jerk around and hoist yourself to your knees, keeping the gun steady in your hands as you aim it at -

Bucky. Bucky Barnes, one leg inside your bedroom while the rest of him tries to squeeze through. Bucky Barnes, sheepish and a little confused, and more than a little irritated.

"There's something keeping the window from opening all the way," he says. "Could you jiggle it a little?"

"Not even a hello?" you ask, pulling your gun back. He's safe. You think.

"Hello. Please open your window."

Biting back a laugh, you jump off the bed to oblige. "I suppose if I don't, you'll be stuck there forever," you tease him. With a grunt and a pull, the window slides open the rest of the way, and Bucky lets out a long breath of relief as he pushes himself through.

"That would be a problem," he says dryly, staring down at you as he straightens his jacket.

"Would it really? I think it would be  _fun_." With a smirk you close the window again, and the traffic is muted. And suddenly your bedroom seems very, very quiet. "Why are you here, Sergeant?" you ask him, hands on hips. "And why no warning? I could've dressed up for ya."

Immediately his face flames red. "You - your pajamas are very nice," he stutters out, and you laugh.

"Why are you really here?"

"I just - I…" Bucky bites his bottom lip, as his color slowly returns to normal.

"Missed me already?" you ask lightly.

"I - I guess."

Now that is not the answer you'd expected. During the recon he'd been a little tense around you; you'd assumed he was still sore that you'd threatened to cut your hair. Barnes isn't known to be particularly friendly to strangers. But now he's at your apartment, having climbed through the window at night, just because he 'missed you.'

How very interesting.

"What's your name?" he blurts. "I mean, your real name."

How  _very_ interesting.

"Only Director Fury knows my name, hon," you smile up at him with a shrug. "That's something you've gotta earn...if you're interested."

"I'm interested. I am  _interested_." Bucky's not one to mince meanings. The light in his eyes has shifted; bright to dark, full of meaning. Insinuation.

You take a step forward, tilting your chin upwards as he catches his breath. You place a hand on the front of his shirt - his heart is racing. You can see very well the stubble on his strong jaw, the dimple in his chin. The thick lashes which ring his eyes. "You wanna get to know me, Sergeant?" you ask softly.

"Yeah," he breathes out, low and slow. "Yeah, I do. You...you were so...amazing. Today. You were amazing. You  _are_  amazing. Cooler than Sam or Clint, for sure. Maybe even Tasha. Probably cooler than Steve."

He's babbling. It's adorable, but you interrupt with a laugh. "Well, maybe I wanna get to know you, too. If I'm being  _quite_  frank. Which isn't my name, by the way."

Bucky laughs aloud - the sound fills your bedroom with warmth and liveliness. It makes your skin tingle from your scalp to your toes. "You look like a Frank," he teases back, lifting a finger to tap the end of your nose.

"How'd you find out where I live, anyway?" you ask. "It's not public intel."

He shrugs. "I have my ways."

"Which are…?"

He holds up his metal hand, gleaming in the light from your lamp. Holding your gaze, he flicks off the end of the pinky finger. "I can hack into any technology," he says, and you give an involuntary  _"ooo!"_  at the fancy port.

"I could use one of those in my finger," you say fervently, remembering a handful of instances when you've fumbled precious flash drives and such. "What - do your other fingers have that, too?"

Bucky is grinning now. He knows he got you. So he flips open the ring finger - a three-pronged port. The middle finger - a mini USB-drive. "Pretty much unlimited memory," Bucky explains. "Stark has good tech like that. He put all the updates here, in fact. And this one - " The index fingers just looks like a hole inside. You suspect it's not. "Miniature stun gun," he says proudly.

"Very cool," you say, impressed. "What about your thumb."

He chortles, and gives you a thumbs up. The tip opens, and a little flame peeks out, steady and orange.

"Very handy, if you're going to an Aerosmith concert thirty years ago," you tease.

"What's an Aerosmith?"

Your eyes widen. "You don't - you don't  _know_?"

"I don't have a lot of memories from thirty years ago," Bucky points out.

"Then you gonna learn, pal. Come on." Bravely you grasp his hand - disregarding that he might want to leave, that he's not interested in music - it doesn't matter. There's a single lamp lighting your living room, and you turn on the stereo. Still holding his hand.

The music starts. You turn to face him, pleased to see the interest in his expression as he nods his head. So you sing along, tossing your head back to mimic Steve Tyler's voice.

 _"Come here, baby_  
You know you drive me up a wall the way you make good on all the  
nasty tricks you pull  
Seems like we're makin' up more than we're makin' love..."

Without realizing it, you've pulled Bucky in to a dance. He doesn't protest, snaking his hand around your waist and pulling you close, pajamas and all. He's smiling down at you, with an expression you don't fully understand. But it's enticing enough to keep you interested.

 _"I go crazy, crazy, baby, I go crazy_  
You turn it on  
Then you're gone  
Yeah you drive me  
Crazy, crazy, crazy, for you baby  
What can I do, honey  
I feel like the color blue…"

"I like this song," he says, during a guitar solo. He's swaying just so, his flesh hand shifting to nudge your hips to the slow beat.

"Do you?" you ask. "Or do you like  _me_? Hmm?"

Bucky smiles. "How about both?"

"Okay." Your fingers inch over to his hair, where you stroke the end of his braid. He still has the braids in. And - "You still have my hair tie," you tell him with a pretend scowl. "You little thief!"

"And you've stolen my thoughts all damn day," Bucky snarks back. "We're even."

 _That kind of lovin'_  
Makes me wanna pull  
Down the shade, yeah  
That kind of lovin'  
Yeah now I'm never, never, never, never gonna be the same…

The steps have slowed. But Bucky's hold on you tightens. His eyes - oh  _gosh_ , those eyes - riveted, you catch your breath as his face grows near. Tentatively his lips brush against yours, hot and promising. Your heart is threatening to leap from your chest, and you can't help smiling as he pulls away with pink cheeks.

"Wait until I tell my mom that a guy I learned about in high school history has the hots for me," you tease.

"Ha, ha." But he rests his cheek against your hair, all the same.

 _I'm losin' my mind, girl_  
'Cause I'm goin' crazy  
I need your love, honey  
I need your love…

The song ends. You don't want to stop dancing.

"So, what do you think?" Bucky asks quietly, to the silence.

"About what?" you murmur back. His embrace is really too warm.

"Me. Us. You know."

You lift your head, holding his gaze as his eyes glitter on your face. Drinking you in. Even if he's not terribly eloquent, you understand him perfectly. He lowers his head to nudge his nose to yours. You scrunch your face - he's so  _cute_. How could you say no?

"I could probably lose my job, if...if we were to start dating," you confess.

"Then wouldn't I lose mine, too?" Bucky asks.

"Nah. You're too important."

"Not that important," he mutters. "But maybe enough that I can make sure you don't get fired."

 _So. Cute_. "Maybe we don't have to tell anyone, so no one gets fired," you whisper back. His hand is trailing up on your back, and you nearly moan aloud. Bucky has very good hands. Just strong enough to entice, but not so much to hurt...

"Okay." It's barely a breath, but it flares the embers in your belly to life as Bucky kisses you again, no longer gentle, but hungry and fierce.

How long have you known him, now? Twelve hours? Thirteen? You are  _so lost_.

Bucky is tugging you towards the couch, gasping for air between kisses as you tug at his shirt. But you push him down first, straddling his legs as he stares up at you. In  _wonder_. Oh, you like this. You draw his shirt all the way over his head, and nearly salivate on him.

Later. You can salivate later.

Fervently you begin to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands as you squirm; he's yanking at your shorts, at your top. With no luck, of course. You're nearly about to get off so he can get them off, when a ripping sound pops your head back up.

Bucky is smiling up at you. Sheepishly. Definitely ruefully.

"Punk," you mutter, feeling his cold metal fingertips on the bare flesh of your hips.

"Next time, don't bother with the underwear," he retorts. You giggle, and kiss him again. Next time. Oh, good, a next time…

You're too impatient to bother pushing off his jeans the rest of the way, and clearly he is, too. Tossing his belt carelessly over your shoulder, you let his pants stay at his knees. The sensation of his hot flesh against the sensitive skin of your thighs makes you moan aloud, and Bucky wastes no time pulling your top off. His mouth finds your breasts, and you moan again, louder this time.

"You're killin' me," he rasps, between kisses.

"Not if you kill me first."

"Is this a competition, now?" Bucky's eyes are glittering.

"Are you gonna make it one?" you tease back.

Tangling your fingers into the braids in his hair, you pull his head back to kiss him again. But Bucky pulls away, his fingers ghosting along your jaw to tilt it upwards so he can taste your throat. His lips are  _hot_. Oh...there will definitely be marks there. But right now, you don't care. Especially when his flesh fingers travel between your legs. Your eyes flutter shut with a moan.

"I'm ready," you tell him breathlessly.

"I can tell." There's laughter in his voice, and you peek open an eye to see him gazing fondly up at you. That  _smile_. It makes your heart stutter, and carefully he guides your hips to align with his…

Oh, it's so good. So, so good.

You find his mouth again, kissing him for all you're worth as you grind against him, drawing low groans from his throat. His hands are everywhere; guiding your hips, tracing your waist, stroking your breasts. It's like he knows exactly how to bring your entire body to life...oh, he is  _good_.

With another groan, he leans his head on the back of the couch, bracing himself as he thrusts back. A whimper falls from your lips.

"Baby…" he starts in a husky voice, his breathing short. "I - I can't call you agent now - "

You're laughing as the pleasure bursts through every nerve of your body. A slower pace and a moment later, Bucky tugs your face close to kiss you deeply as his hips stutter against yours, and stop.

"That was good," he says a moment later. His nose is buried in your hair as he breathes deeply. You keep your eyes closed, content just to smell his musky, masculine scent all around you. You pull away to gaze down at him; his eyes are shining warmth and affection, and the tips of his fingers start to trace circles down your bare arms.

"Really good," you agree.

"We should do that again, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke."

Bucky Barnes is a flirt. A conniving little flirt. You  _love_ it.

"Well, I don't have any plans tonight," you tease.

"I do," Bucky says fervently. "I'm intend to get to know you better than anyone. Even Fury,  _if you know what I mean."_ You laugh - because you do know what he means, however perverted it sounds.

In the cold grey of dawn, you whisper your name in his ear.

* * *

"And last order of business…" Tony Stark trails off. The effect of building up to something exciting pays off - Clint jolts awake, and Sam quickly puts away his doodles of Iron Man crash landing into a trampoline. "We will be welcoming Agent 28 as a contractual member of our team. She's worked well with us, and proven her worth. Fury agreed that we can have her part time."

"But can she endure Clint walking around without his socks on?" Sam asks.

"I once sat in a dumpster for two days just to catch a gangster," you tell him, before anyone else can speak on your behalf. "I've smelled things nearly as bad. I have a strong stomach."

"Ha, ha," says Clint, without humor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bucky studying your face intently from across the table. He's not subtle - someone's going to pick up on him. You straighten your shoulders, and meet his gaze in challenge. His lips twitch upwards.

"Then that's all for today. Class dismissed."

It had been a long briefing; a summary of the mission you'd completed, upcoming events (mostly galas and charity gigs), and a reminder that as there are no housekeeping services, everyone needs to wash their dishes before any science experiments begin to grow.

The team begins to file out. Steve congratulates you as he passes you; you thank him with a smile, not blind to the way Bucky is bristling with jealousy. Because Steve spoke to you? Bucky's going to have it rough, with you.

You linger all the same, standing slowly until you're the last one in the conference room. Well, one of the last.

"Agent," Bucky says in a clipped voice, standing with his arms crossed.

"Sergeant," you reply, with a toss of your hair as you mosey for the door. Natasha is still within earshot down the hall, but you can walk a little slower.

"I'm not done with you," he growls. "We need to talk about…"

You glance back, lifting a brow.

"...the way you clean your handguns. It's not safe."

Laughter threatens. "Oh, please. I've been cleaning my own guns for years. And no one else has put up a stink about it."

Bucky is strolling around the table, his eyes glittering dangerously on yours. You stand tall, unwilling to back down.

"Why the criticism, Sergeant?" you say in a much quieter voice, as he pauses at the door. Only two steps away. You smirk. "Want me to clean yours for you?"

He blinks, momentarily distracted. Then a creeping grin grows on his face. "Yes," Bucky says, and his voice breaks on the word.

"Come on, then. We'd better find someplace more...private." You crook a finger in his direction. He obviously nearly melts at this - a shudder goes through his shoulders, and his eyes darken as he stifles a groan. With your head high, you stroll into the hall.

There's a janitorial closet two doors down. Perfect. Without even a glance at any security cams (you or Bucky can erase the footage later), you walk straight in, closing the door after he enters behind you. In the dark, his ragged breathing is very audible.

"Well now, Sergeant," you say softly, tugging at the front of his jacket. "Let me show you how I do it."


	3. One Furious Night

There are a few places Bucky would rather be.

Well, probably about a million. In his room. On a mission. Under a bridge. Being interrogated. But no - he's at the SHIELD headquarters in Washington DC, celebrating the birthday of a man he hardly knows with a party Bucky knows the man didn't want. The culprit? Stark. As always.

Bucky lets out a long, groaning sigh, his fingers tightening around his glass. Sam, next to him, is grinning.

"You know, I'm beginning to think that fancy shindigs ain't your thing," Sam says.

"Shindigs?" Bucky gripes back. "How old are you, Wilson? 85?"

"Ha, ha. You've rubbed off on me. You and Steve."

Sitting at a tall table near the bar, it's easy to watch the rest of the guests as they mingle. It's somewhat of a consolation that Nick Fury detests this nearly as much as Bucky does - but that satisfaction doesn't last. His bowtie feels like it's choking him. Not for the first time, Bucky slides a finger into his collar to loosen it.

It's amazing Fury hadn't had Stark assassinated for suggesting a birthday party, to be honest.

Bucky amuses himself for a while, alternatively sipping his drink and watching nervous agents and oblivious high-ranking government officials go up to Fury, who's standing moodily near the stage where a jazz band is playing, to wish him a happy birthday. Most just get a glare. Natasha had received an actual nod of the head when she'd approached him near the beginning of the night. So far, she's been the favorite.

It makes Bucky wonder where the rest of Fury's favorites are. Barton - probably somewhere in the rafters of the enormous ballroom. And you?

Bucky's metal fingers tap the rim of his glass. You should be here. It's a party for your boss - and he knew that you weren't off on a mission. He'd seen you only yesterday, but there hadn't been any discussion about weekend plans. Or much talking at all.  _Ahem_.

"Where's Steve?" he asks Sam, a little hoarsely.

"Probably off with Sharon somewhere. Maybe the balcony. He likes to look at stars, if you know what I mean."

Bucky gives Sam a glare, noting the insinuation but not responding to it. Instead he shakes back his wrist, gazing discontedly at his watch. "Almost midnight," he grumbles. "And there's no one here. I think I'm gonna scram."

"No one?" Sam asks, faking indignity. "How do you like that! I'm  _no one."_

Bucky constrains himself from rolling his eyes. As a general rule, he tries not to be  _too_  juvenile. "Don't flatter yourself, Wilson," he says instead. "You've been eyeing that girl with the martini all night."

"I think we've had a mission with here before," Sam says, his voice turning thoughtful as his head swivels, once more, to the bar.

"We have. Johannesburg, nine months ago. She snapped a man's neck with one arm. You should go for her."

Sam's eyes widen slightly at this, and he turns back to his drink with the slightest cough. But then Bucky watches Sam's gaze flicker upward, and the slightest grin curl his lips. He jerks his head towards the crowd.

"Hey. Look."

Bucky follows his gaze, too curious to be contrary - and boy, does he not regret it. His stomach immediately gives a pleasant lurch his heart racing as he finally -  _finally_  - catches sight of you in the mass of people, walking towards them -  _oh, good_  - with that smile on your face.

"28 cleans up nice," Sam comments, and Bucky clenches his fist to keep from pummelling him. Also, he's too busy staring.

He wouldn't have guessed you'd ever wear a glittery dress. But it suits you; tracing around all your curves perfectly, and a high slit showing off your leg past the knee. Bucky wonders if you're still wearing your thigh holster. He'd never seen you without it in a public space…

He wants to find out.

"Hello, boys," you say pleasantly, coming to a stop between them with a grin. "Wilson. Sergeant."

"Agent," Bucky says, a little thickly. The urge to bury his fingers in your coiffed hair quickly surfaces...and is quickly overcome.

"Hey, Agent," Sam returns, much more naturally. "You look fantastic."

"Thanks. You're looking pretty handsome yourself, Wilson." You flick at some imaginary dust on the label of Sam's suit, and Bucky bristles.

"Wanna dance?" Sam asks, and Bucky nearly screams. He should've asked first...it would have been way less suspicious than bloodying Sam's nose. Stupid, secret relationship...

The barest flicker of challenging gaze, shot towards Bucky, with that wry, teasing smile that tells Bucky he's in for a rough night. His fist is tightly clenched beneath the table.

"Of course. I  _love_ to dance."

Yeah. Bucky definitely should've asked.

It hurts more than he expected, watching you saunter towards the dance floor with Sam's arm around your waist. Bucky takes a sip of his drink, starting an internal lecture that might have to last the whole song.

 _It's a secret. You have to keep it a secret. She could lose her job. She's just keeping up the charade. She's only being nice. If everyone knew she was yours, and you were hers...she would dance with you. Of course she would. And then you could take her away and keep her for yourself forever…_   _Sam doesn't know. If he did, he wouldn't dare tease you like this. If you punch him, it'll be suspicious. Don't punch him._

Not very surprisingly, when you and Sam return to the table several minutes later, a little breathless, and laughing at a joke he didn't hear, Bucky is slightly tense. Darkly he stares at your face as Sam sits back in his chair. You remain standing, a hand on the back of his chair. Then he jolts as your finger brushes every so lightly against the back of his suit coat. Bucky straightens immediately, envy dissipating like a popsicle on a summer day.

"You have to settle this, Sergeant," you say lightly, giving Sam a good-natured glare. "Ella Fitzgerald - before or after your time?"

"Um - before. I mean, during." What is it you're doing to his brain? Bucky shakes his head slightly. "I saw her perform once. With my mom. We went to a club for my eighteenth birthday. She's great. She was great."

"Told you," you smirk at Sam.

"Well, the fossil would know," he sighs in return.

"Hey," Bucky says, miffed.

"Don't call him that!" you tell Sam, a little hotly. "The fossil is  _sensitive_."

You're lucky. If Bucky wasn't focusing on keeping things between you a secret, he would have pinched your behind for that comment. Maybe you know - because as Sam is howling with laughter you glance over him, eyes glittering with...oh, he knows that expression.

"Thanks again for the dance, Sam," you say, voice astonishingly normal. "I'm going to go take a powder."

"Hold up - " Sam wheezes, holding up a hand as his grin broadens. "Take a powder?"

"Yeah." You smile as you lean close between Bucky and Sam, as if telling a secret. The mischievous tilt of your lips tells Bucky that he's in for it.

He is.

Softly, you tease, "I've been spending too much time with the centurions."

Ha, ha. Bucky rolls his eyes, and Sam starts to laugh again.

"You should spend more time with kids your age, 28," Sam says after a moment.

"A kid? I resent that!" you say indignantly.

"He's not wrong," Bucky teases, and for that, he receives an icy glare from you. But the ice quickly melts from the fire underneath. With a sway of your hips you depart for where he thinks the bathrooms are. Unable to stop himself from watching you walk away, Bucky downs the rest of his drink to keep Sam off his scent.

"You should go for her," Bucky says to Sam, nodding his head towards the girl at the bar. "She probably won't snap your neck. Probably."

"She's really pretty," Sam agrees with a sigh. Then he steels himself. "Alright. Alright, I'm going. But if this fails, I'm sending  _you_  the funeral bill."

Bucky chortles, and lifts his empty glass as Sam stands. That was easier than he expected. It would have been suspect if he'd claimed to need to use the bathroom just after you.

Phew. Keeping secrets is hard.

He waits only another minute, to make sure that Sam is occupied talking to the girl at the bar. No one else approaches him, and with his heart suddenly pounding very fast, Bucky slowly stands and saunters off.

Through the crowd, and he wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent of foreign perfumes and strong drinks. Nothing quite like your scent. Which he follows into a dark and quiet hallway. It's easier to smell your perfume here; it's not as tainted by other bodies. But it doesn't lead him to a bathroom - to a janitorial closet. Hesitating only for a moment, Bucky presses an ear to the metal door. Only quiet breathing beyond. Bingo.

 _Tap...tap tap. Tap...tap tap._ Secret code. Because SHIELD property janitorial closets are locked, and Bucky doesn't have a keycard. A moment later the door opens slightly, and he squeezes inside.

Only a few safety lights on the floorboards light the closet, and Bucky catches his breath as the door locks behind him. It's a very small closet. The front of your dress is brushing against his chest, and he sees the glimmer in your eyes as you gaze up at him with a beaming smile.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says back.

"I'm glad you came."

"Thanks for the invite." Bucky grins, and doesn't waste another moment feeling out the traces of your curves, hugged so nicely by your dress. He hears the little sigh from your parted lips as your eyes close. "What took ya so long, anyway?" he asks in a murmur, brushing his lips against your forehead as your fingers clench on his forearms. "Was waiting for you out there for hours."

"Sorry. I got caught up."

He pulls away with a chuckle. "Always an agent, huh?"

" _Almost_  always. Are you going to kiss me, or not?"

"Depends. How was dancing with Sam?"

One of your brows lifts. "Really, Buck? You jealous?"

"You bet I am."

"He's a fine dancer," you tell him with a shrug, tracing your hands upwards on his chest to curl around his neck as a growl threatens from his chest. "But not my first choice, if you know what I mean."

Bucky groans a little. "I  _knew_  I should've asked you first."

You laugh, tugging some sleeked back hair out of the bun at the nape of his neck. It tickles, but Bucky doesn't mind. "I'll try to do better next time sending you a telepathic warning," you tease.

"Good. Spare me the misery of seeing you with another man's hands all over ya." Without any more delay, Bucky's mouth descends on yours, desperate for the taste of your lips - gah, he missed you - and even as you moan he realizes he's probably going smear your lipstick. He doesn't care.

A distant part of his mind hopes that no one is nearby to hear as he pushes you a little roughly against the wall, still devouring your mouth like a man dying of thirst.

"Bucky…"

Oh, he loves the sound of his name on your tongue. Smiling, he pulls away only slightly to move his lips to your throat, where he nibbles the soft, fragrant skin there as your fingers dig into his hair.

"Bucky?" There's a bit more urgency in your tone now.

"Hmm."

"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier."

He likes the low neckline of your dress. Pushing away some fabric, he nips and licks at the skin of your breasts. "It's okay, babe. I survived."

" _O - h - h - h..._ I'm glad you did."

The sounds you make. Bucky's stomach is twisting and turning, hot arousal rushing through his veins with vengeance as his trousers get very tight very fast.

"You wearing your hoster?" he can't help asking, finding that slit in your dress and wasting no time exploring the soft skin of your bare thigh. He's rewarded with a throaty chuckle, and he lifts his head to smirk at you.

"Why don't you find out?" you purr in return. Bucky lifts a brow, and keeping his gaze locked into your dark, alluring eyes, runs his flesh hand up and down your leg as you keep utterly still. Nothing. He moves onto the next leg, stopping in surprise.

"A - a  _lace._..holster?" Bucky doesn't know how he even managed to speak - his throat is suddenly very thick, and his voice raspy. He's gonna need water after this.

"Fancy dress," you tease. "Can't take my Glock everywhere. This one's just a little pistol."

He swallows, gently fingering the cold metal secured in the lace. "I like it."

"Do you?"

"Very much."

The pupils of your eyes are wide and dark, beckoning him to drown in them. "Show me how much," you whisper.

Bucky's not one to turn down a challenge. Or an order, when it comes from you.

There isn't much talking after that. Yes, he definitely hopes that no one can hear anything from the closet. Not that you or he are particularly loud - a habit of clandestine meetings has seen to that - but an elbow knocks down a row of tissue boxes, which are ignored, and near the end a mop clatters to the floor.

But soon all is silent. So silent he can hear the strains of jazz from the ballroom. Bucky doesn't care. He just keeps nuzzling your ear with his nose, listening as your breathing slows into a contented sigh, your hands straying upwards beneath his untucked and now-wrinkled shirt to stroke the skin of his back.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"I'm yours. You know that, right? You're the only one for me."

The confession startles Bucky out of his post-coital haze. Lifting his head to gaze down at you (and ignoring the hard concrete beneath his elbows and knees), he studies the unusually-solemn expression on your face. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, as if anxiously awaiting his response.

"I'm glad," he says, and can't help adding teasingly, "And especially that you aren't meeting anyone else in janitorial closets."

The giggle that bursts from you is worth the joke. Bucky laughs along, regretfully pulling away from your embrace and back onto his haunches. Gently smoothing your dress back over your legs modestly, he offers a hand to help you up.

"That's a hard floor," you comment as you stand, a little stiffly as you flex your back. "You're lucky you're worth it, Sergeant."

"Good to hear," Bucky says with a smile, pulling you in by the waist to nip at your neck again. Not too harshly - no love bites tonight with your skin so beautifully on display. And then he cringes as he catches sight of the mess in the closet.

Working in tandem is second nature - mission or lovemaking or cleaning up after either or. Bucky stacks the tissue boxes as you wad up the towel he'd spread on the floor so as not to ruin your dress, tossing it in a linen basket. No one will want to use that without it being washed. After picking up the mop, he watches with interest as you try to straighten the bodice of your dress, trying to squish your breasts back inside with some difficulty.

"Here." He unzips the back of your dress a few inches, and with a sigh of relief you successfully put things back where they should be. Bucky zips it again, regretting every inch of your skin lost beneath the dress. Well - except that others would see it. Never mind. You should really be wearing a nun's habit.

You're smiling as you whirl around, looking mostly normal as you smoothe down your hair. Bucky drinks in the sight of your eyes, glittering so smugly, so contentedly as you watch him tuck in his shirt. Then he grabs his jacket from where it had been tossed onto a shelf. Along with your holster and gun - for safety reasons. He keeps a beady eye on your leg as you slide the lace back up beneath your dress.

"You know, most men would be pretty freaked out by this," you say, glancing up with a smirk.

"I'm guess I'm not like most men," Bucky snarks back.

"But just as lousy as putting a flower through your buttonhole." With a longsuffering expression, you reach out to fix the red rose which had been crumpled and pressed. Subject to such treatment, it's looking pretty limp, but Bucky doesn't care. He keeps his gaze on your concentrated expression.

"Wanna go?" he asks. "I'm about partied out."

"I do," you say with a smile. "But I have to stay just a bit longer. I haven't talked to Fury yet."

"Fine. Then can we go?"

You stand, tall in your heels, to kiss his lips. "Of course. After I have to meet all my other boyfriends first..."

"Ha, ha." Though Bucky rolls his eyes as you laugh, he likes the the sound of it. Boyfriend. Huh. You  _had_  said you were only his. That must be as plain as you'll get about it. But it's enough.

Returning to the party about three minutes after you is like walking into a dark room. It holds no appeal for Bucky. When he wanders back into the ballroom, he immediately scans it for you - and finds you, standing by the stage and speaking to Fury. Well, he hadn't wished Fury a happy birthday yet. Might as well.

Your head tilts to the side as he approaches, though you don't look his way. Not entirely immune to him, though. Bucky feels a little flutter in his chest, but puts that thought away for later.

"Director Fury," he says politely, shaking Fury's hand. "Um - happy birthday."

"Thanks, but that's not necessary," Fury says, and to Bucky's surprise, a little smirk forms on his face. "Not my birthday."

Bucky blinks.

"Just a little event to flush a suspected inside trader out of hiding," Fury adds. "Thanks to 28 here, that was all tidied up pretty fast. She's my best agent, you know."

Bucky lifts a brow, eyes flitting to you and your slightly sheepish expression. So that's why you'd taken so long to show up. How very efficient. Still, you could've asked Bucky for help. He would've preferred arresting someone to sitting and waiting around all night.

"I'm glad it worked out," he said aloud. "I'd love to hear more about it. You up for a dance, 28?"

The surprise in your eyes is quickly fettered, and followed by a stunning smile. Even though your lipstick was long smeared and cleaned away, Bucky stares at your lips, still hungry for a taste.

"Of course," you say pleasantly. "Good night, Director Fury. Thanks again for your help."

"No problem at all. You kids have fun. Take advantage of Stark's money before he finds out it was a scam." Fury waves them away.

With your hand in his, Bucky leads you to the dance floor. He likes the music much better down here, with you in his arms, than listening and watching Sam with you. Yes, much better. The curve of your spine against his metal hand, your body so close to his but not close enough to raise brows. With a little chuckle to himself, he presses his cheek to your hair.

"So. It was all a lie."

"Oh, please," you murmur, about a half-inch from lying your head against his shoulder. He wishes you could. "It was Fury's idea. A good one, if you think about it. The perp didn't suspect a thing."

Swaying to the sultry beat, Bucky replies after a quiet moment. "Well, fantastic work. I'm impressed."

"I'm almost a little frightened to find out what Stark will say. He's blown a fair amount of money on this."

"Well, maybe he doesn't have to find out."

You laugh. "I think there are more secrets being kept from Tony than being kept by him, these days."

"He'll survive."

"True. He will."

Bucky closes his eyes for a brief moment. He can almost pretend the other faux guests aren't there. In his imagination, it's just him and you - and the band, he supposes. The twinkle lights can stay, too.

He doesn't need anything else.


	4. The Birds are Singing at Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return home from a failed mission, and fall straight into Bucky’s arms.

Bucky is not a deep sleeper. Nearly every hour of the night, he's at least partially conscious of what's going on around him: the whirr of the ceiling fan, nighttime wanderers of Avengers Tower, the cars on the street far below, and the chirping of distant birds before dawn.

Which is why, when a near-silent set of footsteps sound outside his door in the black of night, his heart picks up slightly at the familiar tread. Then, the gentlest touches on the door - one, two, three, four, five - as if the fingers of a hand, and a final thud as if the person beyond is lying their forehead against the door. A shuddering sigh, the softest exhale of breath that he recognizes from early mornings, late evenings, and weary afternoons.

Bucky doesn't move when the door handle is slowly turned. FRIDAY has standing (and private) orders to allow you in his rooms at any time. Finally he opens his eyes to blink at the dim ceiling, and the door is quietly shut.

"Welcome home," he whispers.

To his surprise, you don't answer right away - more urgent footsteps now, and he turns his head to see you holding the back of your hand to your face, only a choked whimper breaking through. Immediately Bucky's stomach tightens, and he sits up in a fluid motion to swing his legs over the side of the bed, ready to receive you.

Catching the woman he loves most in the world - usually a fantastic, marvelous experience. Tonight, heart-wrenching. As soon as you're safe within the confines of his embrace, a dam is opened. Trembling sobs are making you shake; Bucky tightens his hold on you, burying his nose in your grimy hair to try to smell your unique scent beneath smoke and dust.

The mission must not have gone well.

"Hey, I've got you," he murmurs, stroking circles on your back through your crusty black shirt. A brief flare of concern - are you bleeding? He hadn't seen any when you'd come into the room. Gently, without dislodging you from your strewn position on his lap, Bucky runs his hands over your arms, your wrists, your hands - all prime locations for injuries. Your stomach, your neck, your hips and legs. No breaks. But there is a sharp intake of breath punctuating with the cryless sobs when he touches your right hand.

"Are you hurt?" Bucky asks softly. A pause, and then a sniffle as you lift your blotchy face from his shoulder. Though your eyes are rimmed with red, they're bright and alert. With your right hand in his, Bucky tenderly sprays the fingers apart, noting a purplish bruise spreading from the palm to the pinky.

"That doesn't look good," he says. "Can you move your fingers?"

"Of course I can." Your voice nasally and thick. It makes Bucky's heart swell a little out of its despondency, to hear your usual attitude coming through. Shaking your head slightly, you meet his eyes with a shaky smile. "I would've gone to medical if I had a broken bone," you tell him.

"Good girl," Bucky grins back.

Oh, you love his smile - it draws you out of your miserable haze with all its brightness, and your stomach does a funny turn as his eyes sparkle.

"You'll let me wrap it for you anyway, yeah?" he asks.

"If you like."

"I would like." Cradling you in his arms like a child, Bucky lifts you from his lap and swivels, setting you back down on the mussed bed gently. "Now, stay. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"What am I, a puppy?" you call belligerently after him as he disappears into the bathroom. Taking a moment to admire his bum in his sweatpants? Of course. Why not?

But it gives you time to feel the burgeoning shame for coming back from a mission in this state. You've always been proud of your self-control, and for fair reason. But to weep all over your boyfriend's shoulder? A tad embarrassing.

Bucky, to his credit, doesn't appear to bothered by it. Returning to sit beside you on the edge of his bed, he uncaps some bruise cream to massage gently into your hand. It stings horribly, sending shots of pain up your arm - but you stay still. And then even more gently, he uncoils a roll of gauze to wrap around your hand. Bucky's good at wrapping hands, apparently. Very good.

At last he ties off the ends into a knot with nimble fingers, tucking the knot back beneath the bandage. Then he lays his flesh hand across your palm. You can feel the heat through the layers of medicine and gauze, and you sigh.

"Better?" he asks, his eyes twinkling.

"Better," you say with a smile. "Thank you."

"You wanna talk about what happened?"

The peace building in your chest from just being with Bucky stalls. You bite your lip, and after a moment of hesitation, shake your head. "Not right now. I just...I just want to sleep."

Bucky's thumb is soft, stroking the skin of your unhurt wrist. "You wanna stay?"

Nod.

"Can I help you out of your gear?"

Another nod.

"Oh, good."

You glance up, blinking past a few burning tears to see a grin on his face. Bucky slides off the bed, kneeling in front of you as his fingers make short work of the laces on your combat boots.

"Good?" you ask with an arched brow.

"You never let me undress you. And I've always wanted to get that holster off of ya."

Boots cast aside, Bucky glances up, still smiling, as his fingers creep upwards on your leg to the holster buckled around your thigh. Despite yourself, you start to laugh as he lets out a low moan, unstrapping the holster and sliding it down your leg.

"You're absurd," you say fondly, tracing the dimple in his scruffy chin with the pad of your thumb. His grin widens.

"At least you're smiling."

"I can't help smiling when I'm with you." You lean forward, and Bucky obligingly lifts his face so that you can plant a soft but very thorough kiss on his lips. His familiar flavor drives the thick taste of dust from your mouth, slowly pushing back at the misery clouding your senses. You sigh, feeling the muscles of his arms tighten around you as he lifts you back into the bed.

"Thank you," you murmur, curling inward as he draws up the blankets around you.

"It's no problem." Bucky crawls in behind you, holding you close as if in protection. With his strong chest pressing into your back, it's easier to relax - eyes closed, you wind your fingers through his against your stomach. His lips tickle around your ear.

Another sigh, and  _sleep._

Bucky listens to your soft breathing as it evens out and slows. Slowly your muscles relax, and the tense form in his arms is finally limp and relaxed. For while longer he strokes the end of your hair with his metal fingers, but he doesn't close his eyes.

Time is ticking. He'd been selfish to ask you to stay. It'll only be a few hours until Steve's alarm goes off next door, and keeping his relationship with you secret...Bucky sighs to himself, letting his forehead press against the back of your neck. Truthfully, it was damned hard to see you so broken up and to feel so limited in what he could do for you.

When the first trace of darkness starts to dissipate in the room, from the distant sun rising to lighten the sky with its rays, Bucky knows it's time. Gently he extracts himself from around you. A second's thought, and he wraps you in one of the blankets from his bed (a generic blanket, certainly not the only of its style in Avengers Tower), before lifting you up to cradle in his arms.

FRIDAY slides the door open for him, at his request, and Bucky creeps down the hall without making a sound. Unless anyone else with super-hearing is awake, he won't be discovered carrying Agent 28 out of his rooms. No awkward questions. But he hasn't heard much from the Tower tonight. He's not surprised to see the common room empty.

Regretfully, but feeling as though he'd done the right thing, Bucky lays you down on the couch, a pillow propped beneath your head. You stir, as if partially waking from a dream, but after a moment you snuggle in deeper to the blankets. Still asleep. Good. Instinctively he brushes away some hair that has fallen in front of your lips.

Oh, right. Your gear.

He walks briskly but silently back to his room, gather up boots and weapons, to take to the common room. Spreading them on the ground to look as though you'd kicked them off yourself. Bucky's good at setting up crime scenes. No one should suspect that you'd done anything besides collapse in exhaustion after coming home.

Home.

You'd come here. Not your apartment.

Bucky gnaws his lips for a moment, pushing against the urge to stay with you. It's harder to return to his room now. But he does it. Even though it feels like wading through mud.

Had you come here...because of him? Looking for company? Solace?

Well, he won't know until you wake. Which had better not be for several hours, unless Sam makes a racket in the kitchen whenever he gets up. Bucky should maybe put a 'do not disturb' note by the couch. That might help.

Sitting upright in his bed, fingers laced behind his head, Bucky smiles as the dawn lightens his room.


	5. Wrapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky attempts a doomed mission, and pays the price. Sort of.

Time is against him.

Bucky's heart is racing out of his chest as he fumbles behind boxes and tubs. His haste makes him clumsy; a tower of tissue boxes falls to the ground, and he bites back a curse. Any second now he's expecting to hear footsteps on the landing, a key in the door. He can't get caught. If he does, he's  _toast_.

But what he's looking for isn't there.

As far as missions go, this one's a bust. He's looked in every room so far; driven to such desperation that he'd even climbed into the crawl space attic. But  _nothing_. Bucky's getting frantic. Time is running out.

 _Thump, thump, thump_.

Shoot. He knows that tread. Bucky scrabbles around for the boxes, stacking them back up in a mad hurry as he hears the clinking of keys.  _Get out, Barnes; get out get out get out -_

The door opens. Bucky whirls around, shutting the hallway closet door shut behind him as his heart nearly stops beating at the sight of you. Scarf loose around your neck, coat unbuttoned. And brow arched, eyes twinkling. Slowly you kick the door shut behind you, a feral grin crawling up your lips as Bucky licks his, throat suddenly very, very dry.

"I'll just pretend like you weren't just going through my closet looking for your present, shall I?"

Bucky blinks. His legs have gone numb entirely, and his flesh hand pressed to the door behind him is sweating. "Uhh…"

Without looking away from him, you casually shrug off your outerwear, hooking it behind the front door as you brush the snow off your boots. That you're still smiling unnerves Bucky to no end. Partially because he can't stand waiting for the hammer to drop, partially because his own curiosity is gnawing at him mercilessly from the inside, he chokes out,

"Aren't - aren't you mad? At me?"

You blink back, lips twitching in obvious amusement. "Mad?"

"For - um, going through your things." Bucky nearly facepalms himself. It's bad enough  _without_ reminding you what exactly he was doing. His face feels very hot, and as you step into the hallway, still smiling, he wonders if his knees are going to give out. You stop a hair's breadth away from his chest, and Bucky sucks in a tremulous breath.

"I wouldn't have left you here alone if I thought for a minute that you were capable of finding something that I've hidden," you say in a soft voice, and Bucky blinks. Again.

"Wh - what?"

Now laughing a little, you reach forward to grasp Bucky's wrists, pulling him stiffly away from the closet door. "Steve warned me about you," you tell Bucky severely. "I can't believe you went through his mom's dresser to find your own present when you were eleven. If you were like, six, I might understand - but that's pretty low, Buck. Even for a preteen."

"Ha, ha." Bucky senses that he's made himself the butt of a very old joke - and rolling his eyes, he allows you to lead him out of the hallway and into the brightly lit and festive living room.

"Anyway, what makes you think I even got you a gift?" you ask, eyes glittering daringly as you sink onto the couch, patting a cushion beside you. Bucky sinks down. "Aren't I present enough for you?" you tease.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you," Bucky snarks back, and he reaches up to tap the tip of your nose, which you scrunch.

"I do think that. Because it's true."

He chuckles, because he can't really deny it.

"So . . . while we're on the topic," you say, walking your fingers up his chest. "What'd you get  _me_?"

"Excuse me?" Bucky says, laughing. "You think I'm just gonna tell you? After all the grief you just gave me?"

You shrug. "It's easier than searching."

"In your dreams, babe. My lips are sealed."

That wild grin - that smile that Bucky adores with every fiber of his being - forms again on your face. Swallowing thickly, he can do little more than stare as you throw a leg over his, pulling yourself into his lap sleekly. Now both of your hands are on his chest. You can probably feel how frantic his heartbeat is. That's leverage that Bucky rather wishes you didn't have. He stares up at you, drinking in the sight of your mischievous eyes.

"Hon, I know how to make a man talk. With implements of coercion, or without." Your sweet, warm breath tickles his face. Bucky swallows again.

"Yeah? And I know how to resist torture," he says. It's a blatant lie. Out of all the skills he learned willingly or unwillingly, that hadn't been one of them. Idly Bucky wonders why - and then figures that's because Hydra would rather see him dead than in danger of sharing their secrets.

"Hey," you say softly, tilting his chin up with one hand. He blinks.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." Your fingers trace the planes of his face, and Bucky lets the delicious sensation sink into his bones. Closing his eyes briefly, the memory of Hydra fades away as quickly as it came. He lets himself smile, and opens his eyes again.

"I have good news," you say.

"Oh?"

"Director Fury just gave me a mission. I'll be in DC over the holiday weekend - leaving tomorrow - which means you can open your present now, or wait until New Year's."

"Good...news?" Bucky frowns. To be away from you for the next week? That's the worst news he's heard all day.

"Good news for your impatience," you clarify with a laugh.

"What's in DC?"

"White House Holiday Gala."

"Oof. Glad I didn't get picked for that one."

With a smirk, you coo, "Why not, Bucky? You and I have had some good times sneaking out of parties…"

A hundred images flash in his mind. Eyes widening and throat suddenly very dry, Bucky stammers, "O - oh, I hadn't thought of it that way…"

Still laughing, you press a quick kiss to his lips before climbing off his lap. "I'll go get your present. Don't follow me - " you add quickly with a wag of a finger, as Bucky starts to rise from the couch. " - I want to keep my hiding place for next year."

Next year. A beautitious smile creeps up his lips, and Bucky sinks back into his seat with a contented sigh.

"Whatever it is, can't be as bad as Sam's," he calls out, listening vaguely to quiet noises you're making. "I found his stash of presents under his bed. He's getting  _me_ car rim polish and a buffering rag."

A laugh rings down the hall. "Well, that's very practical of Sam."

"I don't think he was thinking of practicality."

"Fair." Your voice comes closer, and Bucky peeks open an eye as you wander into the living room, package in hand. It's brightly wrapped with a red bow, and he can't help but stare beadily as you sit down beside him.

Bucky hates waiting for presents. He always has. He could sniff out a Christmas present six months early in his parents' house growing up. Steve knows this. And Steve had told you. And you're giving your gift to him early.

Gosh, he loves you.

With a beaming smile, you lay the package in Bucky's eager hands. He opens his mouth to speak, but then ruefully says, "I didn't bring yours."

"Well,  _I_  can wait," you tease. "Patience is a great asset to a secret agent, you know."

"You saying I'm a bad agent?"

"You only hear what you want to hear, as always. Just open the present, Bucky."

He slides his fingers skillfully beneath the tape. He doesn't dare tear the paper - he can hear his ma's voice in his head,  _Don't waste paper, James! We have to use that for next year_.

A box. Carefully lying the intact paper aside (and pointedly ignoring your look), Bucky lifts off the lid of of the box. And starts laughing.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious, excuse me." The indignity in your tone only makes him laugh harder. From the box he lifts out a torn thigh holster. He recognizes it. In fact, Bucky remembers the  _precise_  mission that had been its last.

"This is a treasure," he says solemnly to you, though he can't quite prevent the grin on his face. "Why isn't it framed?"

"Because it's not your real present, you goof. Look again."

Bucky lays the holster aside, still smiling. "It's more than I ever wished for, I promise."

"I know." Your smug little smirk makes his heart stutter a little bit. But it's time to focus - he reaches in the box again, and pulls out, to his bafflement, a little book.

"What's this?" It looks almost like a scrapbook. Bucky opens the cover with a curious frown. On the first page is a yellowed newspaper clipping. The blaring headline:  _CAPTAIN AMERICA AND HIS HOWLING COMMANDOS DESTROY NAZI BASE IN OSTRAVA_. The black and white picture underneath is both startlingly familiar and foreign at the same time. He hadn't seen this picture of his old friends in over seventy years.

Still baffled. Bucky looks up at your expectant face. The smile curling your lips is shy now. A little hesitant. As if he's ever seen you shy before.

"Steve helped," you supply. "You can keep looking."

Bucky obeys, flipping through as more headlines leap out at him.  _BARNES GIVEN PURPLE HEART FOLLOWING DEATH FOR COURAGEOUS EFFORTS ALONGSIDE CAPTAIN AMERICA ON EUROPEAN FRONT. FORMER HYDRA ASSASSIN DEFUNKS SIBERIAN BASE. WWII HERO SAVES FAMILY FROM TERRORIST BOMB IN MYANMAR._

"What…"

"Sometimes you forget that you're a hero," you tell him. "This is just to remind you."

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest, stopping on a page that reads,  _WINTER SOLDIER EXONERATED; STARK SAYS 'HE DESERVES TO BE RECOGNIZED AS A HERO'._ Bucky hasn't given much time or thought to newspapers or whatever else has been written about him. He'd figured it was all negative. Tracing the words with a metal finger, his brows pinch in a frown.

"You could fill a bigger book than this with my crimes," he says roughly.

"Hydra's crimes," you correct him. "And we won't, because that ain't gonna help. Don't be silly, Bucky. You  _are_  a hero, and you shouldn't forget it."

Glancing up, he sees the look in your eyes. Tough, unyielding, and completely soft. He knows that look. And he's never been more grateful for it.

"Well, thank you," Bucky says, a little quietly as he closes the book. "That...I mean…"

"You don't have to say anything." You scoot closer to him on the couch, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you in for a quick kiss. "I know you like it, Buck," you say, smiling up at him. "You'd like  _anything_  from me. Even arm polish."

Bucky chortles. "Only if you agree to do the polishing."

"That can be arranged."

The book is forgotten on the table as his arm tightens around you, pressing a firmer and much more thorough kiss on your delectable lips. The little moan that vibrates in your throat as he tangles his fingers in your hair makes his skin tingle.

You pull away, your voice thick and husky. "I can think of a good gift to hold me over until I get back," you say. Bucky grins.

"Oh?"


	6. Midnight in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad mission puts Bucky in a brooding mood.

The mission could not have gone worse.

At least, that's the presumption you make, taking in the the sight of the bodies sprawled around the Avengers Tower common room. They must have arrived sometime in the last half hour or so; you'd only been gone downstairs for less than an hour, filing some reports in a public tech room.

You hadn't gone on this mission. Should've.

Quirking a brow, you take a slug out of a bottle as one of the figures on the couch groans.

"Come on, Wilson," you say lightly. "I've seen recruits take defeat better."

Sam lifts an arm and a finger, as if to reply with some witticism, but he only groans again and his arm flops back down.

Huh. That bad.

Wandering into the kitchen, you open the freezer and grab several ice packs, and when those run out, bags of frozen vegetables. Back into the common room, and you plop some peas on the back of Sam's head. His response is muffled by the pillow his face is buried in, but you guess it's gratitude. At least, it had better be. Casting your eyes over his limp body, you lay an ice pack on a bruised elbow, and on a swelling ankle where his dirty and torn pants have ridden up.

Natasha is draped over a reclining chair. She, at least, mumbles out where she's sore when you approach. Left hand, right eye. A bright bruise is blossoming across her pale skin, and she winces as the cold hits her eye.

"Thanks," she mutters.

Clint hadn't made it further than the floor, lying face up. You examine him for a moment, and then drop some corn on his ribs and peas on his bleeding nose. It looks broken. Again.

"You'd better stop bleeding before you stain Tony's floor," you tell him.

Clint's lip move, but no sounds comes out. His eyes are squeezed shut, as he tenderly lifts a hand to adjust the peas on his nose. His bow and arrows are scattered on the floor beside him; evidently he'd been too beat to even lay them nicely on the coffee table, which Stark insists on. Good thing Stark isn't there.

Last of all is Bucky, legs hanging off the loveseat as he clutches at his belly, eyes screwed shut. There's blood on his lips, dried beneath his nose, and his knuckles are bruised. You bite your lip, tenderly pressing a hand to his jaw as he moans pitifully. It would be ideal to give Bucky a better examination, but…

It's a secret. The clandestine relationship. That you've seen him naked, that sort of thing.

"Hey," you say softly as he stirs. "Where're you hurting, Sarge?"

Eyes still closed, Bucky touches his mouth, his forehead, his stomach, his groin. There go the last couple icepacks and a bag of frozen corn. He hisses as the cold hits his face, finally peeking open a bright blue eye to glare at you.

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" he asks. Crotchety enough to be his age. You smile.

"Yes," you say plainly.

Bucky grumbles.

"Thanks, 28," Natasha says weakly from across the room. "You should've been there. But then again, maybe you'd be just as busted up as we are, with no nursing attendant."

"Nonsense," you brush that away. "We could've called in Fury to apply bandages. He's not busy tonight."

Clint groans from the floor, his voice nasally from the peas on his face. "I do _not_ want Nick Fury as my nursing attendant," he says.

"Fury is a great nurse," you sass back, curling your fingers around Bucky's boldly, as everyone else is too absorbed in their own hurts. He squeezes back weakly as you add, "His bedside manner is especially fantastic."

"Only if he has cartoon bandaids," Sam mumbles.

"I think he has collects Avengers packs, so yeah."

"Does your nursing extend to drinks?" Natasha asks, interrupting the banter.

"Sure." You stand from Bucky's side, dropping his hand regretfully.

When you return to the common room a few minutes later with several beers in hand, Natasha has managed to sit forward in the chair, though she's holding her face in her hand. Sam is slouched upright over an armrest, and he even cracks a pained smile as you pass him a bottle. Which cracks his lips, and he winces.

"Er, thanks," he says.

The image of the Avengers, so pathetic after a bad mission is a little disheartening - they're your teammates, after all - but a bit amusing, too. Natasha accepts a drink without looking up, and you place a cold bottle by Clint's head. Blindly he grabs for it, holding it to his cheek as he tries to roll over to sit up.

Biting your lip to keep from laughing outright, you hand the last beer to Bucky, who groans as he gently swings his legs over to sit up. To keep from being obvious - you retreat to sit on the floor in front of Sam's couch. At least you can watch Bucky from there. Restlessly you tap your fingers on your knee, suppressing the urge to run them through the tangles in Bucky's hair.

Secret. Secret.

"What's going on here?" The exhausted silence is broken as Stark walks into the room, distracted by the device in his hand until he looks up to take in the scene. Natasha is the first to answer.

"Bad intel," she says, lifting her head to look at Tony. "There were triple the guards we expected. Barely made it out. Extraction failed."

Tony presses his lips together. "Okay. We'll...do better next time."

There's no response. Nat dips her head back down again, and Sam places his empty bottle on the coffee table.

"You should go to medical, Barton," Tony says after a moment. "Your nose looks nasty."

"Yeah. Okay. I'm going." Clint tries to push himself to his feet, but sinks back down to the floor. Stark steps forward, and so you do - each holding an arm to help him up. Clint teeters slightly before finding his footing. His face is drained of color.

"Concussion?" you suggest to Tony.

"Probably. I'll take him down."

"I'll stay here," you say, glancing at Bucky's slumped form out of the corner of your eye. "Keep the drinks filled. Make sure no one bleeds out. That sort of thing."

"If any blood gets on the couches - " Stark starts to say.

"I know, we'll all be indicted."

"Out of your paychecks. Every one of you." With that threat coupled with a severe stare around the nonresponsive room, Tony heaves Clint back towards the elevator.

"I'm gonna go," Bucky rumbles, standing with a wince. He drops his ice packs on the table.

"Where?" you ask, unable to stop yourself.

"Anywhere."

"You should stay and rest," Natasha says. Privately you agree, but say nothing.

"I'm going." Without looking your way, Bucky walks stiffly towards the door, grabbing his jacket which had been slung on the back of the love seat. Several guns are left behind. Pursing your lips, you gather up his weapons to take back to the tac room underground. The elevator dings. He's gone. You have to wait for the next one.

This is unlike Bucky.

When you return to the common room, Natasha and Sam and talking quietly amongst themselves. They're less limp than before, so you write them off as just fine. You pick up your coat from where you'd left it in the kitchen, pulling it over your shoulders and tying your scarf tight around your neck.

"Tell Stark I went home," you say to Nat, tugging on a thick wool hat.

"'Kay. Will you be back tomorrow?""For the debriefing of this?" you ask, quirking a brow. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Why do I feel like it's going to turn into a slag-fest?" Sam grins.

"Because you're learning from experience," you tease back. "See you later."

"Have a good night, 28."

"'Bye, Agent."

The Tower is quiet. It's after hours, and nearly everyone is gone. Stepping out of the empty elevator, your eyes flit over the empty front desk, the closed ground-floor coffee shop. Dark, and quiet. The clock above the front doors of the Tower read 11:12 p.m.

Shivering as JARVIS gives a polite farewell, you tense as the chill night air strikes your cheeks. You set off at a brisk pace towards the subway, shoving your hands in your pocket to ward against the cold.

Really, you should've insisted on going on this mission. Even if it had still failed. Feeling so useless when the team had suffered so much is not pleasant.

Your thoughts stray to Bucky; the haunted look that had shadowed his eyes, his abrupt departure. He usually isn't one to leaving to be on his own when you're around. You might have expected that he would whisper in your ear to beg you to stay at the Tower that night…

A smile begins to curl your lips. At the end of the block, you see a dark figure standing outside a convenience store. Hands in pockets, just like yours, and one foot propped against the wall behind him. His head tilts towards you as you approach. The bruise curling around his nose has deepened to a brilliant and unsettling purple, dotted with green and black.

"Hey there, stranger," you say, when you're near enough. "Need a place to sleep tonight?"

Bucky lifts his head, a little grin tugging at his lips. His shoulders are less tense now, though there is still darkness in his eyes as they settle on your face with fierce warmth.

"You offering, ma'am?"

"Thinking about it," you tease.

"Don't care where I sleep," he says back, his voice low. "Long as it's with you."

"How sweet." You offer one of your mittened hands to him, but when Bucky takes it he winds it through his elbow, falling into lazy step beside you down the sidewalk. It's empty, since it's getting near midnight. The few people braving the winter night are bundled and walking fast. Taking a deep breath, you tilt your head towards the dark sky.

"That bad?" you ask, keeping your tone light.

"Worse." Bucky's eyes are on the ground again. There's a tick in his jaw, and after a moment he pries his lips apart to say, "There were kids."

A knot forms in your stomach, and instinctively your fingers clench on his arm.

"I...remembered," he says slowly after a moment. "I remember in Siberia. In Petrograd. I remember there were always kids. And then..." Bucky's voice cracks. You lean your head against his shoulder, keeping pace as he takes a shuddering breath.

"We can go back," you tell him softly. "Stark's already planning on another extraction. We'll make sure the entire team is there - I'll be there. We'll get those kids out."

He's silent for a moment, and in tandem you take the steps down to the brightly-lit train station. The cold fresh air is replaced by the warmer, though stale scent of underground. There are only a few other people around, and finding a lonely place to stand out of earshot, Bucky wraps his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I love you," he murmurs. "You know that, right?"

You grin, lifting your gaze to examine his expression. Still haunted. "Well, I am offering you a place for the night, aren't I?" you tease. "Don't pretend I'm not buying your love."

Bucky chortles. Some of the shadows disappear from his face.

The whoosh of the train arrival brings the acrid scent of fuel and metal. In tandem you and Bucky step onto the train, and have no trouble locating seats. It's mostly empty; only a group of young girls at the other end of the car break the silence. Idly you twist your fingers in Bucky's as the train rumbles on.

"Hey, um . . . are you the uh, Winter Soldier?"

You glance up. The girls, college-age by the looks of it, have crept across the car, eager smiles on their faces. Bucky stares blankly back for a moment as you suppress a laugh, and he stutters,

"Er, yeah."

A squeal from one of the girls, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

"Can we get a selfie with you?" the first girl asks. Evidently she's not put off by the cuts and bruises on Bucky's face. You have to give her credit for that.

"Um, sure."

"I'll take it," you volunteer, as the first girl pulls a phone out of her pocket. She bats her eyes at you.

"Thanks."

Four girls. They all crowd around Bucky, huddling close to his bruised face. He blinks quickly, startled into looking at you as you hold up the phone. His lips form an urgent plea, _Help me._

You grin. "Say cheese."

" _Cheeeeeeeese_ ," in tandem.

Bucky's breath of relief as the girls retreat, a chorus of thanks. You snicker a little as you wave them goodbye, returning to their side of the train car, taking your seat beside Bucky again.

"You didn't have to abandon me like that," he mutters, taking your hand again.

"I was just trying to be nice," you say with a little laugh.

"And to not get your picture taken and spread across the internet, right?" Slanting his gaze towards you, Bucky lifts a brow.

"Oh, please," you brush this away. "The SHIELD algorithm program that protects my identity works on any digital picture with my face. I could've been in the picture just fine - but I'd be erased out of it already."

"That's depressing," Bucky says, after a moment of thought. "So...there aren't any pictures of you. Like, with your family."

"Well, childhood pictures," you point out. "And it's just a sacrifice for the job I chose. Most people have to give up something."

"Uh huh."

"And I get to enjoy so many _perks_." With a wink you nudge Bucky's arm, and he smiles as he obligingly sling it over your shoulder, tugging you close.

"You talking 'bout me, babe?" Bucky's husky voice says into your ear.

"Mmm. I bet you'd like that, huh?"

He nips at the sensitive skin behind your ear, and goosebumps break out in heady streaks across your skin. "Mmhmm," his voice vibrates. Your fingers tighten on his, and Bucky shifts awkwardly in his seat.

Back on the city sidewalks, the neighborhood where you live is much quieter than around Avengers Tower. The street lights flicker, and only a few cars can be heard a few streets over.

"Well," you say lightly, turning to Bucky with a smile. "At least this time you won't have to climb through the window."

This earns you a laugh - a real, belly laugh, and as you punch in the code for your building Bucky sinks into chortles, shaking his head.

"Are there security cams around here?" he asks. "Stark's probably watching them, if you live here."

"There sure are, and he sure does monitor them," you say. "Or at least, a peon at SHIELD does. Remember? I don't show up in security cams. They're not looking for me - they're looking for threats."

"And the Winter Soldier?"

You grin down at him, hopping up the stairs as he trails behind. "Well, he's just a big ol' softie, posing for selfies with starry-eyed girls. I ain't in danger from _that_."

Bucky's eyes darken as he passes in the shadows of the stairwell. The smile that curls his lips is best described as - feral. Wild. Promising - in one way or another. "You sure about that?" he purrs, his voice low and sending little tremors through your limbs as you arrive at the door to your apartment.

"Well," you say in a murmur. Bucky stands very close as you unlock the door. "I'm a big girl. I can handle myself against some big, bad, scary soldier man."

The spell is broken. Bucky's laugh echoes in the hallway, and quickly you usher him inside. Once on the doormat, however, as you deadbolt the door behind him, he looks distinctly awkward - hands in his pockets, and looking around as if unsure.

"This is my front door," you say dramatically, waving your hand in demonstration. "This is how normal people enter someone's home."

"Ha, ha," Bucky says, but he cracks a grin.

"Do you need the rest of the tour?" you tease, shrugging off your coat to hang up.

"Maybe just the shower. I think I stink."

"Well, _I_ wasn't going to say anything…"

Bucky glares, and you laugh. "Need any help cleaning up, soldier?" you ask, batting your eyes in imitation of the girls on the train. He rolls his eyes in return.

"No. I think I know how to shower. We used to bathe back in the 30s and 40s, you know. Weren't always savages."

"Just sometimes."

"Just sometimes," he repeats. And smiles, as you take his coat for him.

"Well, you know where everything is," you say, tugging off your boots next. "You've made my home yours. Go freshen up, then we'll talk."

"About what?"

"Anything you want."

Bucky tilts his brows suggestively, but you merely smile and wander off towards your bedroom as he makes for the bathroom. A few minutes later, and you can hear the shudder of pipes and rush of water. Should you have insisted staying with him? In this mood? Maybe. But he seems to be doing better so far, so you shed your clothes for the day as the clock ticks towards midnight. Setting your thigh holster on the dresser, you yawn and listen idly to the water.

He doesn't take long. Only a few minutes later the water stops, and you hear Bucky's plaintive voice through the door,

"Um - can I have a towel?"

Chuckling to yourself, you poke your head (and an arm) into the steamy bathroom to fetch one from the cupboard. "Here," you say, grinning at the wet, dark hair plastered to Bucky's woeful face as he peeks out from behind the curtain.

"Thanks."

"You're very modest tonight, aren't you?" you tease.

"I'm not in top form," Bucky deadpans. "Now shoo so I can dry myself."

Keeping your eyes locked on his, you pretend to sidle out of the room, but pause, looking him up and down as he glares, bumping into the curtain as he tries to dry his limbs. You bite your lip to hide a smirk, and shut the door behind you.

When Bucky at last emerges, he has deigned to wrap the towel firmly around his waist, but is otherwise bare. Reclining casually in bed and pretending to read a book, you peek up, thoroughly admiring the crystal droplets of water left on his naked chest. Then your eyes descend to the purple and black bruised ribs above his stomach.

"You need those wrapped?" you ask, swinging your legs over the bed and abandoning your book. "I have a med kit here."

"They're fine," Bucky shrugs as he runs his fingers through his damp hair. "They'll be healed by morning."

"Optimistic of you."

"I prefer to think of it as _experienced_."

You quirk a brow, both admiring and recognizing the glint in Bucky's eyes as he saunters towards you. Hooking a finger into the waistband of the towel, you lift your gaze to his, smiling.

"Well. You're probably experienced enough to know that rigorous activity in this state will only delay healing. Too bad."

Bucky's brows pinch together in clear exasperation. "Really, babe? All that teasing and now you're afraid of hurting me?"

"I'm always a little afraid of hurting you," you sass back. "You may not _look_ a hundred years old, but..."

He gives a huff of laughter, nudging his knees between yours. "Oh, that's how it is?"

"That's how it is." The words are barely a breath, as Bucky leans over with glittering eyes and a hard expression, his lips hovering above yours for a tantalizing moment. His fists press into the bedspread on either side of you, and you smirk. "How much pain are you in?" you ask softly.

"Not enough."

"Good."

With a tug, the towel falls to the floor.

There's no more teasing. Bucky's lips crash into yours with a groan, and you feel his arms flex under your hands as you try to keep yourself from falling over entirely. Breathlessly you pull away.

"You lie down," you say, scooting over. "I won't be worsening your wounds tonight, Buck."

"Okay." The severity of his discomfort is shown in his dogged obedience, crawling over and collapsing on his back, his head buried in the pillow as he squeezes his eyes shut. But obviously Bucky isn't too uncomfortable. Your eyes rake up and down his body, and you smile to yourself. Throwing a leg over his hips, you brace yourself as you lean down to nuzzle his ear, breathing in deep the scent of your soap clinging to his musky skin.

"Where does it hurt?" you purr.

"Ugh - everywhere."

"Then I'd better get started."

Taking only a moment to press a tender kiss to his lips, you sidle downwards to kiss next the molted skin of his belly and ribs. Every inch that's swollen, every inch that's discolored. Bucky sucks in a breath as you nibble gently back upwards to his throat.

"Better yet?" you ask, paying special attention to the bruises around his eye and nose.

"Er, yeah. A bit." His voice is strained.

"Should I keep going?"

"Uh...please."

Bucky is quivering. Whether it's pain or something else, you study his face briefly to make sure there's no hidden agony there - he seems alright - so you next stroke your fingers down his flesh arm. Lifting his hand to your face, you keep your eyes on Bucky's as you kiss every scratch marring his skin. His breathing is a little ragged as he watches you with hooded eyes.

"Better?" you whisper.

"So much better."

You lay his hand on your thigh, his fingers immediately pressing into your flesh as you tug your shirt and bra over your head. Discarded. And your pants and underwear next. Bucky watches your awkward movements with a fond smile playing on his lips.

"No dance for me?" he teases lightly.

"Oh, you're getting a dance." You throw a leg back over his hips, grinning at the sight of his widening eyes. It only takes a little finagling and a sigh of contentment to feel him sheathed so fully within you, and Bucky throws his head back with a groan.

"Good dance," he manages to say, his voice hoarse. You laugh a little, but don't stop - and more mumbling words fall from his lips as white hot pleasure begins to swirl lazily in your veins and coil in your belly. Bucky's fingers dig into your hips, urging you on. The blazing light in his eyes as he watches your every movement - every roll of your hips, every stuttered breath, every little involuntary moan as the quivers of building euphoria streak through your trembling limbs. Bucky isn't faring much more coherently - he licks his lips, biting back more groans.

It doesn't take much longer.

With sweat beading on your bare back, with Bucky's huffing breath breaking the silence of the room, you let your eyes stay closed for a moment. It's not often that you have the chance to savor making love with him. You'll take what you can get.

Eventually you feel the gentle pads of Bucky's fingers tracing up your arms - goosebumps break out beneath the cold metal ones, but you don't mind. With a sigh you climb off of him as he winces, and collapse at his side, snuggling in close.

"You didn't exert yourself, did you?" you murmur, burying your nose into his flesh shoulder to savor his scent. Bucky chortles.

"You did all the work there, babe. I kept perfectly still."

"Good. I'd hate to explain to Tony or Steve why you didn't heal overnight like you said you would."

He laughs again, curling his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer. With his metal hand, he reaches down to tug the bedspread up to cover both of you, and you sigh again.

"Do you need to go back?" you ask after a moment, a coil of dread twisting your stomach. In Bucky's embrace - in a warm bed after a long day - it's hard to be the conscience. Propping your chin up on his shoulder, you study his expression as he frowns at the ceiling.

"No. I don't think they'll notice I'm gone."

"Hmm. Well, Steve's supposed to be back in the morning from his mission. I don't think you'll be able to slip past him."

"Sure I will." Bucky tilts his head, grinning at you that charming smile that makes you feel cozy and warm all over. "Believe it or not, I'm an adult and I'm allowed to sleep away from my residence if I so choose."

"Uh huh. So what will you tell Steve?"

"That I spent the night riding the train and feeling depressed." The joke only lasts a split-second - Bucky starts to chuckle, and spluttering giggles burst from your lips.

"The worst thing is, he'll probably believe it," you tease.

"Yep. Now, are you going to turn off the light, or are you going to make the man with dislocated ribs and a black eye get up out of his comfortable position to - "

You groan, interrupting his spiel. "Oh, _please._ You're going to milk this for all it's worth, aren't you?"

"Yep." Bucky's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and you roll yours fondly in return. But all the same, you quickly kick back the covers, run (still naked) over to the light switch, and flick it off. Rushing back through the sudden darkness to the warmth of the bed, you snuggle in close to Bucky, placing your cold toes on his feet. He groans, squirming away as far as his injury will allow.

"Payback?"

"You know it."

But he's not bitter. Idly his fingers tangle in your hair as you close your eyes with a yawn. The scritch-scratch against your scalp puts you in a trance, and the distant sound of traffic below fades faraway. Here, there's only Bucky.

* * *

 

"Hey, you ready to go?"

Bucky glances up from lacing his shoes towards Sam, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom looking more than ready for the charity half-marathon Stark had signed the Avengers up for. The prospect is...alright, really. No real complaints. Except that it's six a.m.

"I'm ready," Bucky says, and stands, rolling back his shoulders to ease out the stiffness of sleeping.

"What's this?" Sam has been distracted, and he takes a step into the room to pick up a new picture frame that sits on the bedside table. Sam stares at it for a moment, then looks back up at Bucky, his brows twisted in bafflement. "You keep a picture of yourself on your nightstand?" he asks.

Bucky shrugs. "Don't you?"

"Nah, man." Sam sets the frame back down, shaking his head. "Let's go."

"After you, Wilson."

Sam's back turns as he heads towards the door, and Bucky smiles a little to himself as he takes a clandestine peek at the picture. Himself, of course, with his arm slung over an empty upholstered seat to his side, grinning broadly at the camera.

"See you at the race," he murmurs to himself, and follows Sam out.


	7. Risky Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission in Stockholm. A shared hotel room. And a secret. The prompt I used is: “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Slamming through the door with your knee, you stride through and toss the duffel bags you were carrying onto the bed. From inside, the sound of the blizzard winds and howling storm can still be heard, but it's muted. As Bucky follows you inside, dumping his own gear, you pull open the curtains obscuring the window and gaze out to the - well, nothing, really. It's impossible to see anything through the conditions.

"This isn't going to end well," Bucky prophecies as you snap the curtains shut again. The hotel room is suddenly much dimmer. Turning around with a sigh, you yank down the zipper of your coat. He glances over, a tiny smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

"Aw, come on," you say lightly. "What's the worst that could happen?"

 _"What's the worst that could happen?"_  Bucky mimics. Then, holding up a hand, he tick off his fingers one by one. "Let's see - the mission fails. We die. Someone else dies. We can't even  _complete_ the mission because of the weather. We get stuck here all weekend."

"That doesn't sound so bad, does it?" It's tempting to laugh, but you don't. Meeting his gaze for a moment over the bed, he shakes his head as he rummages through one of his bags, producing a handful of knives and holsters. You busy yourself opening your own bag. Your favorite glock, which you give a once-over before securing it to the holster at your thigh. Bucky is peeking over with a great deal of interest.

"But you know what would be the absolute worst?" you tease. "If we had to up our game pretending to be a happily-honeymooning couple and the team heard us having sex over the coms."

Bucky's brows shoot into his hairline. Lips parted, he stares as you smirk and strap on a holster across your chest.

"So you're implying...it's an option," he says.

"I did no such thing," you tell him, buckling the strap with a  _snap_. "I only said it would be the worst."

"Having sex with  _me_? The  _worst_?" His blue eyes flicker a challenge, but you laugh. But it's cut off as staticky feedback fills your ears. Then Tony Stark's voice - Bucky's smile fades as he, too, presses a finger to his ear to listen in.

"Team Hot Shot, report."

"We're in the hotel," you answer. "It's full up - we asked the receptionist. So the targets should be here."

"Haven't heard any noise next door," Bucky adds.

"Cap and Falcon are in position for surveillance, if they don't freeze first. Gotta keep the ball rolling here. Sam's toes are on the line."

"Well, I'd do anything for Sam's toes," you reply sardonically, noting Bucky's arched brow in your direction.

"I'll pass on the message. Keep in touch."

And the com goes dead.

"So what if the team isn't listening in on the coms?" Bucky asks, picking up the previous conversation at once as he sheds his jacket. Your eyes flicker over the muscles of his arm, visible beneath a deliciously tight shirt. Biting your lip, you tug out a few wires and contraptions to hook up.

"They can turn on the sound anytime to hear what we're doing," you remind him. "That's a bit of a risk, don't you think?"

"Every reward has a risk," Bucky teases as you walk past him. Tossing him back a coquettish look over your shoulder, you refrain from responding. That'll teach him. Well, not really - it'll just rile him up more.

You tear off a bit of tape and secure a tiny camera to the peephole on the door. If the targets aren't in their room at present, at least you'll be able to tell when they return. Bucky brings over a laptop, and you hook the wires in and wait patiently for the feed to come in. It's a little hard to concentrate with him standing so close, but hey - you've had practice. Once the flickering view comes in of the empty hall, you haul over a chair so he can set the computer down.

"That's going to obscure our route to the door," Bucky points out.

"Unless they come in through the window guns blazing, it's unlikely we'll have to make a swift exit. Remember the plan?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. Didn't recall an attack through the window being an option."

"This hotel houses foreign diplomats and nationals," you say. "They won't break under anything less than hefty. Even  _you_  might have some trouble getting through."

"Ha, ha," Bucky says, and as you turn from the door you feel his fingers belatedly grab for your waist. He comes up empty, but the soft touch is enough to send little prickles across your skin.

Focus.

The target is a group of terrorists handing off weapons to local extremists. Tony had picked up on the case a few days earlier, and while something like this is normally handled by Special Ops, the terrorists have links to some crazy fools with bigger dreams. Tony intends to dismantle the threat now before it worsens - which is fair. And that's why you're presently in Stockholm in the middle of January, secured in a hotel room with Bucky Barnes which is both the first and last place you want to be. For a few different reasons.

But he surprises you. Bucky behaves perfectly well over the next few hours, apart from a few sly glances and a little wink when you decided to sharpen your knives to pass the time. Luckily he was lounging near the door, and you'd taken up by the window. Distance helps.

Steve comes in over the coms. Immediately you stand, in tandem with Bucky.

"Targets moving in. West entrance. Got a 20 on their ride; Sam and I are after the goods."

"Team Hot Shot, wait until they get to their room to apprehend," Tony advises. "I'm following up on air surveillance."

Checking again the Glock at your thigh, you reach over the bed to pick up two assault rifles, lying in the neat rows you and Bucky had arranged your gear in. Working together often has its advantages - the pair of you have a system. An effective one. At the door, you pass Bucky his rifle, joining his gaze on the laptop screen. Nothing yet.

Tucking the rifle into your shoulder, you wait. And then voices are heard down the hall, muffled. Several dark figures pass outside the door, blurry in the feed. You count seven.

"Seven perps," Bucky says softly into the coms. "We may need backup."

"Pshaw," you tell him. "We got this, Sergeant."

He lifts a brow. "Whatever you say, Agent. But it's on your head."

"It always is."

The sound of the door to the room next door closing (and locking), is heard in the silence. Bucky nudges the chair away from the door to your room, and you give him a brief nod. He yanks it open, leading the way out.

Adrenaline starts to pump through your veins. Though you've done this many, many times in your life - in a new environment, it still sharpens your senses. Outside the target's door, Bucky lifts a fist. He gives a single knock, but then sends his fist through the door, and kicks it open.

What can you say? The man has manners.

Two men - guard, no doubt - lift guns at the intrusion. You and Bucky each get one (non-lethal shots, of course, but enough to take them down), and the other scramble to their feet, ready to dart. Not that there's anywhere to go. Especially since you see Tony hovering in his suit outside the window. You give him an ironic wave, which he returns.

"What is the meaning of this?" The man in the central, the shortest and thinnest, is indignant. You understand his words reasonably well, but your speaking of his tongue is a bit poor. Bucky barks back - his grasp of the language is better - something about illegal guns and terrorist groups and such. Which the target immediately refutes. Gun trained on one man with his hands up, you sidle over to the table, peering down briefly.

"Oh look, a couple thousand dollars and a map of the Stockholm underground," you say. "With red dots in the busiest stops. Targets, maybe, do you think? Sergeant? Stark?"

Stark knocks on the window, startling the men into jolting around. The blood in their faces drain when they see him, and Tony gives a cheeky wave.

"If we have the evidence, the police can take care of them," Stark says into the coms. "Cuff 'em up, you too."

Bucky snaps a few more things at them in their language, and reluctantly they kneel down on the ground. With Bucky standing to the side menacingly (he's very good at that), you unlatch a set of chain cuffs, bending over to snap them onto each man. And the injured ones, too, who are moaning and bleeding on the floor. Oops.

"We made a mess," you tell Bucky ruefully.

"Think Stark will send us home tonight?" he asks, diverting the topic.

"Dunno."

"I'd be sad to not take advantage of our shared room."

Bucky, teasing mid-mission. How very unlike him. You glance over with a smile, enjoying the smirk on his lips. Lovely.

But there's no time to enjoy it more. Several police officers rush into the room, which immediately becomes a scene of chaos. You duck off to the side, to let the police do their job leading the terrorists away. Slinging your gun over your shoulder, you shove your hands in your pockets as you watch.

"Well, I've already booked the rooms," Tony says over the com. He has left the window - probably doing additional surveillance. "We can stay the night, do a little sightseeing - or we can head home. Cap?"

"Sounds fine to me," Steve's voice says. "Easy mission. Might be nice to have a night out."

"Falcon?"

"I'm here. And I don't say no to a free hotel."

"Agent 28? Barnes?"

In the emptying room, you catch Bucky's eyes. The expression in them is clear as day, and you hold back a smile. Quietly you creep across towards him. "Barnes got hit," you lie, as his blue eyes widen above you. "He's a bit dazed - I think he might be concussed. He's going nowhere without a good nights' sleep."

"He looked fine to me," Stark says after a moment.

"He was, until you left. Then one of the perps got wise and tried to break out. Took a shot at Barnes before we knew what was happening. We got him, though."

"Does he need to go to the hospital?" Steve asks.

"Nah. In my experience, this sort of thing will clear up pretty fast. He's barely bleeding."

Bucky, watching you lie expertly to the team without once cracking, obligingly lets out a moan of distress. "That rat bastard," he mutters, and you stifle a giggle. "Prison is too good for him."

"Yikes. Not the attitude we want on a night out. Agent? You coming with us?"

"Nah. I'll make sure Barnes wakes up during the night so that he doesn't slip into a coma. You never know, with these super soldiers."

All the police and terrorists have gone, and the room and hall are quiet. Your fingers trace a pattern upwards on Bucky's tactical vest, and you hear him inhale sharply.

"Well, thanks, Agent," Stark says.

"I can come later and relieve you - " Steve starts to say.

"No, that's okay," you interrupt quickly. "I've been to Stockholm before, and you haven't. Go enjoy yourself. I wouldn't mind some sleep myself - had an early wake up call, this morning."

"If you need any bandaids, I've got some great Hello Kitty ones that will look great on Barnes," Sam teases. Bucky's lips twitch in annoyance, and your fingers curl around his collar. Annoyance disappeared from his expression faster than a gunshot.

"Not necessary," you say lightly, meeting Bucky's heated gaze with a wink. "I'll take care of him. You boys go have fun."

"Thanks, Agent."

"Yeah, thanks. We'll make it up to you sometime."

Lifting a hand, you pull the com out of your ear. Then Bucky's, and you close a fist over them as a beaming smile spreads across your face. "That was easier than I expected," you admit. "I thought I might have to really clock you so they'd believe you're injured."

Bucky blinks. "You would hit me?"

"To have a night to ourselves? You betcha."

His eyes sweeping your face, a smirk grows on his lips as his fingers trace the curve of your hip. "Then you definitely wouldn't be getting laid,  _Agent_."

"A risk I would gladly take."

"How about the risk of Steve barging in later and seeing us naked?" Bucky purrs, wiggling your hips closer to align with his.

"We can lock the door, silly. He'd get the point. Probably. "

"And what if Tony turns back on the coms to give us an urgent message, and all he hears is you moaning and screaming my name - "

Grinning, you tilt your chin upwards, nudging your nose against the scruff of his chin. "I  _never_ scream."

"You say that  _now_."

A giggle bursts from your mouth, just as you stand on your tiptoes to wind your arms around Bucky's neck and press your lips to his. But only for a moment, and then you pull away, licking your lips to taste him again.

"Aren't you gonna tell me how clever I am for coming up with such a great lie?" you purr.

"Yeah, my girl's clever alright," Bucky says gruffly, his flesh hand sliding beneath your shirt to stroke the skin of your stomach. "Too clever. You're gonna get us caught sometime."

"Never."

"You just wait." With a chuckle he nips at your nose. You lean back, scrunching your face, and Bucky takes the opportunity to bend down and pick you up to sling over his shoulder. Yelping, you grasp your rifle just before it falls to the floor, and unrepentant, Bucky strides from the crime scene and back to your own room.

"Stark could be watching the security feed," you remind him, jolting with his steps.

"He's probably too busy reporting to the police. 'Sides, we're here already." Through the door, and you hear him close it and secure both locks. Then his hands are creeping towards your behind, and he lifts you up like you weight nothing at all to set you on the floor. You're ready with brow quirked at his smile, as you gesture towards the gun in your hand.

"Your gun safety isn't quite up to par, Sergeant," you tease. "Not very safe to jolt it around like that, huh?"

"You wanna talk about jolting?" Lifting the strap to his gun over his head, Bucky takes a step towards you, backing into the wall. Oh, the expression in his face, the darkening of his eyes - it melts you. He can probably hear the little flutter in your heart, and it makes him grin. Gently he pries your gun away, and points his opposite fingers towards your nose. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

"But - "

"Don't move."

"Bucky - "

" _Don't_."

So you roll your eyes instead.

Leaning your head against the wall, you watch as Bucky gathers up the gear strewn across the bed, piling it haphazard on the desk. Gun safety, indeed. Then he sheds his tac vest, running his fingers through his hair as he saunters slowly back to you.

"Got you right where I want you," he murmurs, coming close and dipping his head to nuzzle into your neck. You bite back a moan, clutching his biceps to steady yourself.

"What? Against a wall?"

Bucky chortles. "With nowhere to run. Nowhere to be. You've been busy lately, babe."

"I have a demanding job," you remind him, trailing your fingers upwards to tangle in his loose, dark hair.

"And what about me?" He nips at your earlobe, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

"You're a bit demanding, I guess."

Bucky's lips fasten to the sensitive spot behind your ear, and a choked whimper parts your lips as you arch your back, desperate for more. But he only chuckles, and pulls away.

"Bucky…" you whine. He kisses the base of your throat, nuzzling down between your breasts and down your belly, where his fingers make short work of the zipper of your pants. His breath is hot, and your eyes flutter shut as your fingers tug on his hair, legs quivering.

"You should spend more time with me," he teases, sliding down the waistband of your pants - and underwear - down over your behind and to your knees. You peek open your eyes to see his bright blue eyes, sparkling with mischief as he grins. "I'm worth your while."

"Are you?" you tease back. He nips at the skin of your thighs, his eyes not moving from yours. Already hot tingles are bursting across your body, a coil of arousal growing taut between your legs as Bucky gives your core a little taste. But just a little. His expression is wicked. He  _knows_ what he's doing to you.

"Yes," you pant, leaning your head back against the wall again. "Yes! You're worth my time. Bucky, please!"

"Want something, babe?"

"Yes. Get on with it!"

"Mmm. Impatient, are we?" But he must sense the frustration tightening your limbs, because he obliges, dipping his head back between your legs as tremors of delicious heat spread from your center. Moaning, you brace yourself with a hand on the wall behind you as your muscles cease to work full function. Bucky's low chuckle vibrates through your core as he pulls away slightly.

"You taste better after missions," he says huskily. Your heart is pounding fast, but somehow you manage to reply.

"Must be the adrenaline." You think for a moment, carding your fingers through his hair. "Not that the mission today was very difficult, but…"

"It was extremely difficult, what are you talking about?" Bucky asks indignantly, standing and gently curving his fingers around your waist with a smile. You flinch away from the cold metal.

"What are  _you_  talking about?" you ask, perplexed. Bucky lets out a long, slow breath.

"See you in that thigh holster, babe. Makes it hard for me to keep it in my pants."

You burst into startled laughter. As you're howling, he picks you up by the hips and carts you to the bed. Still overcome, you barely notice when he tugs off your pants the rest of the day, tossing them carelessly aside with your combat boots and socks. Then your shirt, followed by your bra without ceremony.

"Okay, it wasn't  _that_  funny," Bucky interrupts. You peek through tears of mirth to see his face, slightly red, as he tugs off his shirt. Now  _that_  will sober a girl up. Planes and ridges of hard muscle, taut under his skin as he fumbles with his belt.

"I bet it is hard to keep it in your pants," you tease. "That's a pretty tight pair."

"Make my butt look good?" Bucky turns and gives a wiggle of his hips, which makes you laugh again.

"Your butt  _always_ looks good, Sergeant." You lean over to give said butt an affection pat. "Must be all them squats you do when I'm spying on you in the gym."

"Squats?" He tilts a brow upwards. "Oh, no - this is all, 100%  _natural_."

"Natural Soviet super soldier serum, you mean?"

"All organic," Bucky says with a wry grin, and suddenly he's crawling over you, pressing you back into the bed.

"You don't know that," you point out, placing one hand on a delectable pectoral, which flexes under your fingers. But you can't laugh again - you have a feeling that Bucky might start to get  _really_ hot and bothered if you keep giggling at him. Well, there are worse things.

Hooking a foot behind his knee, you drag Bucky forward until his face is above yours. He's smirking, but you don't care.

"How about a kiss for your girl?" you murmur.

"I guess she's been good." And he rewards you with a single peck on the lips. You frown.

"I've been better than good, pal. If it weren't for me, you'd be out with Stark and the boys, goofing off. But you can be  _here_ , with  _me_." You hoist yourself onto your elbows, face level with Bucky's as his magnetizing gaze holds yours. Unable to keep from smirking, you bite your lip as his eyes flicker down to your mouth.

"At least I wouldn't have to keep up with your sass," he teases.

"You love it."

"I love  _you_."

You blink, and his smile lights his eyes impishly. Bucky...had never said that he loved you before. But the weight of the moment isn't cumbersome, or awkward - it just...it is. Natural. As if he's loved you all along, and you him. He dips his head to gently bite at your collarbone, causing shivers to race up your skin.

"Silliness and all," he adds.

With a whimper you fall back, and his thick thighs part your legs with an answering groan from his chest. His elbows rest on the bed, effectively trapping you within his embrace. But you don't want to leave. Tracing down the muscles of his back with the pads of your fingers, there's no more teasing -

Bucky's hips grind into yours, and the sensation of finally being filled causes your breath to catch as tendrils of carnal heat curl through your limbs. Whimpering in your throat as his lips travel south to your breast, you rock your hips up to meet his, and another low groan vibrates from him.

Sometimes it's rushed (in supply closets), sometimes it's desperate (before or after being apart for an extended time), sometimes it's lazy (in the morning. Well - once. When he'd snuck over to your apartment and fallen asleep after making love for a record amount of time. Still one of your favorite memories).

But now, it's all sweetness and sincerity as you move together, enticingly slow but not torturously so, and when your heart begins to skip and your breath to come in ragged gasps, Bucky lifts his head with a grin to gaze down at you. Then it gets a little sloppy, and your knees clench around his hips to keep him steady.

"You're magnificent," he whispers hoarsely. "Just look at you - my girl. All mine." And when your climax sprints your system suddenly and fiercely, Bucky lowers his head to swallow your moans with his mouth. Then his hips stutter clumsily, and you rake your fingernails down his back as he groans loudly, and stops.

"Damn," he says after a quiet moment.

You give a throaty giggle, nudging Bucky to the side so you can breathe. He falls to the bed with another groan, before pulling you into his side, legs tangling. A gentle kiss is pressed to your temple.

"Better than going out?" you ask softly, closing your eyes as you trace your fingers along the metal ridges of his arm. He chuckles, and you're rewarded with another kiss.

"A thousand times better."


	8. London Beckons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky are sent to complete an undercover mission in London to root out a domestic terrorist. Some contingencies must be overcome, and new nuances of your relationship explored.

**I. Before**

"Ricky Coates," Tony Stark says, and a picture flashes on the projection in the middle of the table. Through the glowing lights, Bucky can see the reflection of your lovely eyes. Distracted. Just like he is. He grins.

"We don't have all the details on what sort of mischief Coates has been getting into," Tony continues. "But it's not good. We have traces of proof that he's been funding an underground terrorist cell in London. Suspicions, really."

"So, you've got nothing," Natasha clarifies.

"Slightly more than nothing," Tony says, miffed. "But we're gonna rattle up enough to put him and his goonies in prison the rest of their lives. No guy, no matter how rich, should get away with this."

"Obviously," Sam mutters.

"Which is why I'm sending Steve and Natasha to Marrakech. He has a summer home there, and we have camera footage of goods being smuggled out by night. Shut down those operations, get intel, and get out. They have some ugly guns there," the picture on the screen switches to a villa by the seaside. "Knock-offs of my stuff. Those jerks."

"Is this a vendetta against knock offs?" Clint asks.

"No, this is getting a man arrested that ignores patents and uses weapons to kill people. Remember the Tube bombing last month? Traced to him, but a sudden influx of cash to the police shut that investigation down."

"Typical," Natasha sighs.

"Barton is going to Edinburgh," Tony continues. "His job will be to weed out any corruption in the Scotland Yard."

"Do I have to wear one of those dumb hats?"

"Yes."

Clint groans.

"And for the fun job," Stark presses another button, and the picture changes to a fancy looking townhome, and several pictures of unknown people pop up. "I got Barnes an interview to join Coates's security team in London. And Coates, as it typical for a wealthy terrorist, has a taste for, ah, the finer things." Tony pauses. "You think he's cute, 28?"

You jolt slightly. Bucky grins to himself as you tear your eyes away from him. "Huh?"

"Coates, do you think he's cute?"

"Um…yeah. I love pasty."

Nastasha snickers, and Bucky rolls his eyes. But Stark nods.

"Good enough. He has a new model on his arm every week. Next week is your week. Pepper has prepared a portfolio and an extensive resume - and we've been messaging him for you back and forth on Tinder. He's, um, excited to meet you."

"Ew," says Nat.

"Yuck," says Sam.

Bucky just clenches his jaw, humor gone.

"I can do model," you tell Tony. "Done it before." But Bucky sees the little twist of your lips into a frown. Reservations or no, you'll do your job. You're good at that. It's one of the reasons he loves you so much.

"Excellent. There are some pre-mission readings for you guys to do in your inboxes…" Stark swipes a few things on his phone. "...Now. Have fun, kids. Flights leave tomorrow morning."

Not much time to pack. Pretty typical of Tony to spring things on the team that way, though.

Bucky cracks this exact joke to you that night, long after midnight in your darkened room, while simultaneously ignoring the voice in his brain telling him to get home and sleep before the flight. Because your giggles are worth losing some sleep. Even all of it.

"Aren't you getting used to it by now?" you tease, your eyes glittering up at Bucky as he traces the soft skin of your back. He's lying on side, the perfect vantage point to admire that post-loving glow around you.

"Fair point," he grins, tangling his fingers in your hair. "Doesn't get less annoying though."

"Also fair."

"Think it'll be a tough one?"

You gnaw on your lip a moment, eyes still fastened on Bucky's. He could drown there, really. "I don't think it'll be too bad," you tell him. "I've done this sort of thing before. And you?"

"Yeah. I'll miss you, though. It'll be tough seeing ya walking around on some prick's arm, all dolled up and looking like a million bucks."

"Just one Buck for me," you whisper, and scootch forward to kiss Bucky senseless.

He's still in a bit of a haze as he climbs aboard the private jet in the morning. He'd only snatched an hour of sleep (he can catch up when he's dead), and with a bag haphazardly packed, Bucky is maybe looking forward to a continuation of the night before. A six hour flight to London, just you and him? More like a vacation than a mission.

You're already sitting primly in a seat, and glance up when Bucky ducks inside. Immediately he grins (you have that effect on him), and as he's stowing his bags, you say lightly,

"Got your coffee. Thought you might need it after last night."

"Mmm. Thanks, babe." And Bucky plants himself right across from you, maybe knocking his knee into yours accidentally. Your brow lifts, and he winks.

"You look a little tired," you tease, and Bucky shrugs, taking a sip of his drink.

"My girl has a lot of energy in her."

Your lips twitch into a smile. " _Too_  tired, Bucky? I mean, you can nap during the flight…"

"Not too tired not to make good on this little vacation Stark is sending us on," Bucky murmurs, and your smile broadens.

 _"I like the sound of that_."

"Whoa, almost missed it!" A running and a shuffling and a clanging draw Bucky's attention around, and he glances back to see - with some horror - Clint stumbling onto the plane as the door shuts behind him. His bags fall to the ground, and he hurries to pick them up as an overhead voice announces preparation for departure. Bucky turns back to you, his stomach knotting with disappointment. There's a little sigh from you, a shake of the head, and you drag over a magazine lying at your elbow.

"It would've waited for you, Barton," you say, flipping open the pages. "Stark's not that cruel."

"Phew. I wouldn't put it past him to book me a boat to Scotland." Clint collapses across the aisle in his own seat, pushing sunglasses atop his head. "I get seasick."

"Airsick?" Bucky asks, not wanting to know the answer.

"Sometimes."

Lovely. So much for a private flight.

Clint stays awake the entire duration, too - so there's no sneaking off to the bathroom. Bucky has to content himself with merely meeting your eyes every so often, when he gets bored of looking out the window at the endless expanse of sky. Eventually he nods off, wondering why Clint had to be talking to some relative or another on his phone when he could be anywhere else.

London is misty and grey; as soon as the plane descends from the clouds prickles of rain dot the windows. Good thing he packed a jacket - which Bucky takes the time to put on after the plane is parked, and you're grabbing your things, and a jacket, too.

"Good luck in Edinburgh," you tell Clint, remarkably cheery.

"Yeah - sorry you got the creep. Um, the Coates guy. Well, him too." And with a horrible grin, Clint nods at Bucky. Bucky rolls his eyes, grunting as he heaves up your bags with his to carry off the plane.

"A creep wouldn't carry my bags," you tell Clint primly. Bucky can sense as you follow him down the steps, where a car is parked and a driver waiting outside.

So no nonsense in the car, either.

"What a mean thing to say," you mention to Bucky, falling beside him as the plane prepares to go on to Scotland.

"Not the worst I've heard," Bucky replies, a little stonily as he loads the bags in the trunk.

"Fine. If you want to be a creep, you can be  _my_ creep." And with a wink, you duck through the opened door into the backseat. Bucky smiles, and slides in behind you. Bad humor gone.

"Sweet of you," he murmurs, daring to lace his fingers over yours atop the leather seat. The driver climbs into the front seat, glancing back in the mirror. Bucky jerks his hand away.

"I'm taking you to the Stark's safe house," the man announces. "He sent me an updated schedule - Agent 28, you have a dinner appointment with the target in an hour, and Sergeant Barnes is to report to the head of security for the target's team tomorrow morning at 8 a.m."

"Thank you, I was wondering when I'd head over," you say.

 _No thanks_ , Bucky thinks to himself. An hour? Only an hour and he wouldn't see you again for who knows how long? Slouching in his seat with those miserable thoughts, Bucky watches London speed by. So much for a fun mission.

The townhouse is in a quiet part of time, but clearly very wealthy. Marble-fronted apartments, with iron-grated fences, unnaturally vibrant grass and flowers. Bucky steps out of the car, holding the door open for you as he gazes around. He can't hear or see anything out of place, which is good. That would negate the purpose of a safe house. The driver informs them he'll be waiting to take 28 to dinner. Bucky fetches the bags as you punch a code to get into the front door.

Stark had left a video message, which you're already playing by the time Bucky barges through and kicks the door shut behind him. Swanky place.

"Your resume is over here," you call to him, and Bucky drops the bags. At a bar counter looking into the kitchen, you're looking through your own materials - Bucky only gives his a cursory glance. He can peruse it more thoroughly later.

"I'm so glad Stark didn't give me an accent this time," you say with a sigh, closing your folder. "Unnecessary difficulty. Like only having a half hour to get ready for a date."

"Fake date," Bucky reminds you.

"Very fake." You smile back. "You'd better not botch your interview tomorrow, Barnes. I need you around. And not just because I like your bum."

"I know. You like my pecs, too," he teases, and you laugh.

Bucky relents to unpacking his things while you take a quick shower. Even though the townhouse has upwards of seven bedrooms - why use more than one? It's nice to watch you wandering around in a towel as you fetch a fancy dress and accessories, anyway.

Time's ticking.

With a sigh he plops himself on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his fingers laced behind his head as you strap on a pair of heels that look like they might break your ankles. But Bucky bites his tongue. Well, on that topic at least.

"Try to get the information from this guy fast, yeah?" Bucky asks, smiling tightly. You glance over with mischief sparkling in your eyes.

"But not too fast. Maybe I wanna enjoy living at the height of society. Being spoiled. Privileged."

He snorts. "If you wanted that, you could've snookered me into it a long time ago. You know that, right?"

You laugh, brushing down your skirt as you stand. "I know."

"How're you gonna do it?" Bucky asks next, his voice a little hoarse as you slide a small pistol into the lace holster adorning your thigh.

"Make him talk?" you quirk a brow.

"Yeah. You gonna be a bad influence?"

"Of _course_  I'm gonna be a bad influence. When am I not?"

"I feel like I should compromise the poor schmuck. He doesn't know what's coming."

"That would compromise the mission, you goof." The red silky folds of your skirt hide the holster, and your legs. Bucky sighs.

"Oh, right. Here I thought we were just doing this for fun."

You cast him a wink as you scoop up a golden clutch. "This is fun. It would be more fun if I didn't have to stay at the target's residence until the mission is complete."

Did you? Bucky groans. "Stark didn't tell me that," he grumbles.

"Nor I, until we got here," you say with a little sigh. "Walk me to the door?"

Bucky leaps up from the bed, giving a low, sort of frivolous bow and you laugh. " _Madam_."

The snatched kiss before he nudges you out the door is going to have to last for a long time. Sighing, Bucky leans against the doorframe as Stark's driver opens the car door for you, and your brightness is cut off with a slam. Even though the windows are tinted, he wiggles his fingers in farewell, hoping that you can see him, at least. The rev of the engine soon breaks through the soft city noises, and he watches as the car disappears through the mist.

It's going to be a very long mission.

* * *

**II. During**

It's a very long mission.

Four days into his new 'job,' and Bucky has seen you exactly twice. The first time had been Coates was leading you out the front door to another dinner date. Bucky, being briefed by the head of security for the night shift, lets his eyes stray to you. Another flowy dress. The target's hand on your back, possessively.

Bucky had suppressed a growl.

The second time was more lucky - passing by each other in the underground garage, you'd met his eyes for the briefest of moments and the slightest of nods. You had something. Information, probably. So when you were inside Coates's house, being indulged at a flirty little private supper that made Bucky want to barf, he staged a conversation with a busboy near your seat to get a rendezvous set up.

"There's a spill in the northwest toilet," Bucky mutters. Standing at the wall with orders only to look threatening (it's not a tough gig, that's for sure), his eyes fasten on the tilt of your head. You'd heard.

Fifteen minutes you excuse yourself from Coates's extravagant flattery and poorly disguised dominance. Perfect timing. Eight o'clock on the dot, and time for a shift change. An identical goonie in a black suit steps in from the hallway, and Bucky steps out, yanking the laughably old com device from his ear as he takes off in long strides.

He passes beneath a security camera - there's no shortage of those - just as the red light flickers and turns green. Damn, you were good. Bucky yanks the tie from his throat as he shoulders open the bathroom door. A quick glance down the hallway - all clear. And then your hands are on the lapel of his jacket, and he stumbles through the rest of the way.

"Bucky," your voice is a little whimper, your hands all over his chest and into his hair, ruining the neat knot he'd put in that morning. Bucky doesn't care. He's on break. And that dress is  _fine_ on you.

"What's the report, babe?" he forces himself to ask, feeling out just how silky the fabric is on your curves.

"Charity gala next Saturday. Something big's going down." You pull away slightly, and Bucky swallows thickly - he's forgotten how potent your gaze is. He could drown.

"Coates has all his security working that night," Bucky says. "I'll be there."

"Good. He's taking me shopping tomorrow for a new dress to wear." You don't quite roll your eyes - but the sentiment is there. Bucky grins.

"Maybe I'll be on duty for that. Would ya like that?"

"Way better." Your lips twist into a wry smile. "Have I ever told you how much I adore you? Because spending time with that leech is driving me mad. I miss you."

"I'm glad," Bucky teases, swaying your hips  _just so_  against his. "You - um - he hasn't - ?"

Thankfully, you laugh. "Nope. This guy - loves beautiful women, but just for appearances." You lean close, your voice lowering as Bucky stares at your lips, riveted. "He can't get it up."

A stunned moment, and then Bucky laughs aloud. Your hand quickly covers his mouth, and he sobers up fast - cameras might be out, but they could still be heard by someone passing. Time is ticking. Just like that stupid clock in that stupid bedroom he's been sleeping in in Stark's safe house when off-duty. Bucky tugs your hand away, gently, and presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. An unfamiliar perfume - he wrinkles his nose.

"Sorry. Coates bought it."

"When this is over, we can throw it out."

You giggle. "Bossy, aren't you?"

"Isn't that what you like? A man to buy you expensive clothes and insist you look a certain part so he can fill the void left by his sexual inabilities and wanton murder of innocent people?"

"Don't even joke about it, Bucky," you say severely, but you're smiling as you poke his chest. "Kiss me quick - I have to get back."

Gladly. Bucky lowers his head, lips already parted to devour as much of you as he can in such a short amount of time - but a knock sounds on the door, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

"I'll be out in a moment," you call out playfully. Then, frowning, you smooth down the lapels you'd grabbed so eagerly. "Sorry, Bucky. It'll be over soon. Saturday night."

"I'll report to Stark," Bucky says with a sigh.

"And I'll give you thirty seconds after I leave until I fix the cameras. Can you manage?"

He grins. "Always."

When Saturday night finally rolls around, Bucky's about ready to combust. Whether it was cruel fate or some impressive manipulation by Stark from afar, he seemed to be scheduled and positioned within Coates' household to always be around you.

Including the rooftop pool.

Watching you lounge on a beach chair in a very skimpy bathing suit while Coates fed you grapes (yes, for real), and paparazzi snapped photos from the next building over - was enough reason to throw Coates off the roof without any regard to the mission. Did Coates set up the paparazzi? Bucky guessed so. He does allow himself one smile - they'll be surprised when SHIELD wipes the photos. It's his single consolation.

The charity gala takes place at a ballroom halfway across London. Bucky wasn't in the car with you and Coates - but the one behind. But he wastes no time to rush forward calmly and open your door for you. The gold dress is not particularly tasteful - but it  _is_  attractive. The little smile you shoot him - more so.

From his position at the southeast exit, Bucky scans the crowd for suspicious patterns. None yet. The other security guards have been whispering quite a bit amongst themselves, though. That's not good. And you?

Sitting at a table beside Coates and some other rich people. Laughing as if you were born to live in this sort of opulence - and maybe you were. Not surprisingly, you're gaining a lot of attention from those nearest you. How could they not? Bucky tightens his fists, clenched in front of him.

"Hey man."

Bucky jolts, surprised to see one of Coates' men beside him.

"You can go home if you like. We've got this covered."

Since this schmuck isn't Bucky's 'boss,' and even if he were, there's no chance he's leaving you alone - he gives a curt shake of the head. "Staying 'till my shift is over," he mutters.

"Fine, man. It's on your head." And the man takes up a position beside Bucky. Probably trying to threaten him. What's that phrase Sam tried to teach him a few months ago?  _As if._

Bucky continues to scan the ballroom.

A light flashes in his eyes. He blinks. Someone needs to turn their watch the other way. Then it flashes again. And again. A pattern. His heart skips a beat.

His gaze is drawn immediately to you - bingo. A gaudy ring on your finger, reflecting light from one of the numerous chandeliers above. On top of the ring, you're tapping a finger. In a pattern. Completely nonchalant, you appear to be telling an anecdote to the riveted table.

Morse code. Bucky suppresses the wild urge to laugh - that joke months ago is paying off, apparently. But he sobers quickly - eyes riveted on your ring as he translates the message.

_North boiler room. Boom. North boiler room. Boom._

Boom.

Doesn't leave much to question, does it.

"Bathroom break," Bucky mumbles to his companion, and twists to shoulder through the exit.

Boom.

He breaks into a run. Out of northwest door, you practically fall through, yanking off the heels from your feet as soon as you're through. Bucky stutters to a stop, grasping a hold of your elbow as you toss the shoes away.

"Do you know how long it took me to get that stupid flash right in your eyeballs?" you say, clearly peeved as you jog alongside him.

"Sorry. Didn't realize."

"'Course you didn't." There's a smile from you - he's missed that smile - and Bucky nearly tumbles down a staircase. Shoot. His heart is racing.

"Left here," you say, dragging him onwards. "Third door. Stark sent the blueprints of the building last night."

"I know," Bucky says - he tries the door, but it's locked. Of course. And the handle could possibly be tied up to trigger the boom - so maybe he shouldn't have tried it.

"Got it," you say breathlessly, pulling your phone from your clutch. Is there anything your phone can't do? Bucky steps aside, allowing you to to hold your phone to the door, letting it scan for any triggers. "It's clean," you tell him. "Just locked. Got a finger?"

"For you? Always, babe."

The party isn't so loud out here - far away from the main corridors. Far enough away to have a private space to plant a boom, near enough to decimate everyone there. Or to injure enough to make a statement.

"How'd you find out?" Bucky asks brisky, shaking his metal arm out of its glove. Pinky for non-electronic locks. It whirrs for a moment, and he shoves it in the door handle.

"Finally cracked the code to Coates' phone," you tell him. "He nearly has as much security as Stark's phone does."

"You've hacked Tony's phone?"

"Well - yeah. Haven't you?"

Bucky glances over at you, blinking as amusement twists his lips into a grin. "Nope." The door swings open. Quickly he slides through, you right behind him. He closes it. "Does Tony know?" he dares to ask, turning to scan the room. Rows of metal shelving, going deep into the heart of the building. Piles of crates in the center. There's a distant ticking in his ear - the boom is nearby.

"Oh, yeah," you say, similarly distracted, craning your neck as you wander forward. "He told me it was a better recommendation to hire me than anything Director Fury said. Here - " You point forward. Behind some crates - Bucky rushes forward as you snake around.

"Well, damn." Bucky crouches on the ground, squinting at the metal box and the flashing red letters. "This guy steals Stark's tech, didn't he say?"

"Yep."

"This is ridiculous. I've seen better bombs made from potatoes."

"Don't you bring that up again," you say severely. "He must be trying to pin it on someone or some organization with poor tech. Know how to stop it?"

"Sure. Cut the blue wire first, then the green. No more than ten seconds apart or it booms flat out."

From your clutch, you produce wire cutters. Of course. Because that's what all the women he knows take with them on dates. With steady hands you do as Bucky suggested. His flesh hand is sweaty - though he's not particularly nervous, it's tense enough in the boiler room that he can hear his own disjointed breathing.

Snip. Snip.

The numbers continue to tick down.

"Alright, bomb squad. Let's try again," you say, quirking your brow up at Bucky. "Any other ideas?"

"Um, nope."

You pull out your phone again, scanning it over the box. Bucky doesn't understand the squiggles and colors on the screen, but you seem to. Biting your lip, you reach inside to wiggle out a metal cover. Beneath - an exposed circuit board.

"Wish I had a soldering iron," you mutter.

"How about a lighter?" Bucky flips open his thumb with a winning smile. Which you return, glancing up him.

"That'll work."

You yank out some of those wires you'd cut, and Bucky busies himself heating the ends while you carefully remove the main circuit board from inside the box. Setting it on the ground, careful not to pull out the wires it's plugged into, you study it with a frown as you brace yourself on your elbows, nose not five inches from the circuit board. You hold out a hand. Bucky passes you a hot, dripping wire.

"So," he says, as your brow pinches. "Where'd you learn to defuse a bomb so delicately?"

A pause before you answer. "Got my undergrad in electrical engineering."

"No wonder you're so good with tech."

"Yep."

"And...you went from that to SHIELD?"

"Yep." You pass him back the wire, and Bucky heats it again. After he returns it, you continue, "I was on a flight once that someone tried to blow up. Nick Fury was on board. He got the terrorist, and I defused the bomb." Pause. "Then we found another one. Less than ten seconds left."

"What'd you do?" Bucky asked in a hushed voice.

You chuckle. "Threw it out the door over the Atlantic. And Fury gave me his card."

"Wow. How come I never knew this?" He watches your nimble movements over the circuitry. The molten drops of silver, skillfully maneuvered.

"You never asked."

"Oh."

"But neither has anyone else - only Natasha has some idea of what happened on that flight. She likes to get her paws on high-security files. That was before Fury zipped my identity permanently closed."

"And your family?" Bucky can't help asking.

"They think I'm in IT," you explain.

The numbers on the front of the box stop. With a little laugh, you lift your head at last and sit back on your haunches. Your dress is smeared with dirt and oil from the floor, and some has smeared on your face - but you've never looked lovelier.

"Perfect." relief flooding his limbs, Bucky can't help smiling soppily at you - which you return, reaching out to tuck some hair behind his ears. Mission's over. Finally. His eyes flicker to your lips, to whatever shade of expensive lipstick you're wearing. How smearable is it?

Running footsteps start outside the door, and he jolts back to reality. The smile lingers on your lips.

"I'll call Stark and report, yeah?" you say softly.

"Yeah - I'll get to Interpol. Then let's bust outta here, yeah?"

Your eyes sparkle. "Yeah."

Interpol, combined with forces of the local police are there in less than five minutes. Subtle, too - breaking through the glass ceiling to rain down upon the unsuspecting guests. By that time, Bucky has dragged you to the ballroom to watch Coates being taken away - and it's a very satisfying image. There are too many people, otherwise he'd sling an arm over your shoulder, or hold your hand. But he has to content himself with watching the expression on your face as you watch the commotion from a doorway, arms crossed in front of your chest.

"I'm tired," you say at last, turning to Bucky with a shy little smile. "Take me home?"

Bucky grins, straightening from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe. "Need me to carry you? I noticed you didn't pick up your shoes back up. And the police made a mess with the glass."

"That would be  _great_."

It's no trouble at all, lifting you into his arms bridal style. But Bucky doesn't say so - he knows you'd snap right back at him with some comeback, and from the way your head is leaning against your shoulder, now's probably a good time to let you relax.

Stark's driver had been waiting outside the gala - since Bucky had informed him they'd likely need a ride home afterwards. The ride goes too fast, in that pleasant backseat with the twinkling lights of midnight London streaking lazily past the windows, and your languid body tucked into the seat next to him. But that's okay.

Out of sight from the driver, he strokes your lower back in tiny circles, listening to your slow, even breaths.

The townhouse is empty as it's been all week - until you step inside. Already Bucky's heart is getting lighter, and after locking down the security systems, he follows your swirling skirt up the steps towards the bedrooms.

"I could sleep for a week," you say over your shoulder, with a little smile as you reach down to tangle your fingers with his. Bucky steps a little faster. "I don't think I got a full nights' rest the entire time I was with the target."

"I thought you said he couldn't get it up."

"He couldn't. But he still wanted me in his bed, and once his sleeping meds kicked in I had to run recon. And then make sure  _those_  files got sent to a higher-up."

"Phew. Sounds tiring."

"It was. But first," you wink back at him. "A shower."

"Need some help?" Bucky asks, eager and unashamed.

"Yeah. I need help finding my jammies from my suitcase."

Into the brightly lit bedroom, and Bucky sticks his tongue out as you pop the zipper in the back of your dress with a laugh. He tugs the tie from his neck. And his throat promptly closes over as your dress flutters to the ground, and you're left in a pair of expensive underwear and, unsurprisingly, your 'formal' thigh holster and marble-handled pistol. Bucky drags his eyes back up to your face after a pregnant pause, to see that mischief in your grin as you roll your shoulders.

"Eye on the prize, Barnes," you tease, walking past him so casually towards the bathroom.

"Uhh….already on it." Instinctively he bends over to scoop up your discarded dress - he doesn't want to be tripping over that. The sound of rushing water from the bathroom - and steam begins to billow out. Bucky peeks back over his shoulder - your underwear is in a pile by the sink.

Hot damn. Two freaking weeks.

Pajamas. Right. You'd asked for pajamas.

Shrugging out of his clothes first - jacket, trousers, white shirt, shiney shoes - Bucky rummages through the suitcase you'd left behind, picking out a few things he thinks count as pajamas. He's not about to be outdone by women's clothes. As an afterthought, he grabs a flowery bag which he supposes has like, deodorant and stuff. Right?

"Here," he calls into the bathroom, plopping your stuff on the counter in the misty bathroom.

"Thanks, sweetie," you tease back, and Bucky chortles.

"You sure you don't need help?"

"Positive. I'm almost done."

"Um - maybe I need a shower, too."

Your laugh echoes in the enormous bathroom. "Probably. Hop in, Bucky."

Score. Bucky shoves down his underwear, tossing them aside, and slips through the glass door into the shower. The steam is hot and thick, and smelling as sweet as you but not as sweet as your smile. He wastes no time pulling you close, placing several sloppy kisses on your damp lips as you giggle.

"All yours," you say with a grin. "I gotta get out or I'll be here all night."

"No problem with that," Bucky says, a little testy as your warm body slips out of his embrace, and sneaks out the door. Only a wink is sent back in his direction. Bummer. Well - might as well.

Over the rush of the water, he can hear you yawn as you dry yourself. You're fast. Must be eager. Bucky starts to rinse the shampoo from his hair, and your footsteps pad out of the bathroom. He shuts off the water.

Phew. This is it. Bucky leans out to grab a towel, giving himself a haphazard once over. The mirror isn't steamed up, thanks to Stark's tech - and deciding that the moment should be a little special, maybe, Bucky drags a comb through hair, wringing as much water from it as he can. Well, it ain't getting any better.

Towel still around his waist (hopefully not for long), he steps out of the bathroom and into the less-humid bedroom. He blinks at the bed - you'd put on the jammies he'd brought, and curled up on the pillows as if to wait for him - but your head is lolled over, eyes closed.

Dead asleep.

And obscenely adorable. Bucky doesn't bother hiding his grin.

It's no surprise, considering the mission and all - all the same, he's a tad disappointed. But there's always tomorrow. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Bucky reaches for his phone on the dresser to make a call.

"You did great, Barnes," Stark's voice says. "Interpol made 37 arrests tonight. No casualties. Where's 28? I need to thank her, too."

"She's asleep," Bucky informs him. "Tuckered out. You still got that jet at the airport?"

"Yep, ready when you need it."

"I think we're gonna take a day or two to recuperate, then we'll head back."

"Not too long, now," Tony says. "Got another mission."

Bucky groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Better be an easier one than this."

"Um - yeah. Sure." Stark hangs up. Bucky rolls his eyes at the ceiling, and tosses his phone back.

Maybe it's just the peaceful bubble you're in - but suddenly his exhaustion is at least the equal of yours. It had been a long mission. And that evening? A bit stressful. So Bucky finds a pair of clean underwear, hanging up his towel in the bathroom and orders the house AI to turn off the lights.

He remembers, belatedly as he's crawling into the covers and tugging some over your prone form, that he's never actually slept beside you before. But it's not a sacrifice at all. Moonlight is brushing against your cheek from a skylight, and Bucky falls asleep with a smile.

* * *

**III. After**

It's the stiffness in his muscles that breaks through Bucky's slumber first. As he shifts in the plush bed, wincing a little, the sun hits his face - guess he's up, now. The tick of a heavy clock grates on his ears - ugh, how had he been able to sleep through that? It's obnoxious. Next, the tantalizing smell of clean woman - clean  _you_  - breaks through his senses, and his heart rate picks up.

The mission's over. You're here.

Bucky lets out a long, slow breath as he opens his bleary eyes. He can't stop the smile spreading across his face - nor does he want to. Instead he rolls over onto his side towards the lump on the other side of the bed, where the bright sunlight is making your strewn and messy hair shine.

You're still sleeping - that's good. It's been a long mission, for both of you. In different ways, of course. Bucky scoots close, his stomach flipping a bit as he admires your eyelashes, spread on your cheeks. The soft puffs of breath from your lovely lips. The utter contentment in your expression. And your limp fingers, curls up on the pillow by your head.

He can't stop himself. Bucky lifts his flesh hand, tracing the curve of your smooth cheeks. A moment later and your breath catches. Oops. Well, not really. He grins as your mouth splits in a yawn, and your muscles tense in a languorous, full-body stretch.

"What time is it?" you mumble.

"Half after ten." So the clock's good for something.

"Oof. Let me sleep longer." And you turn on your side so your back is facing him. Bucky finds that offensive. So he scoots closer again, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull your backside flush against his front. His feet find your toes - his fingers find one of your hands hiding beneath the pillow.

"Bucky…" your drowsy morning voice is a bit whining, a bit warning.

"What is it, babe?" Bucky nuzzles the back of your ear with his nose. "Didn't ya miss me?"

"Ugh, so much. But I'm  _so_ tired."

"I can take care of that."

A sigh - and then an adorably sleepy giggle. "Of  _course_ you can. Fine then. Wake me up."

That's all he needed. Bucky wastes no time flipping you onto your back, lips crashing into yours with urgency - but sweetness, too. He can feel a laugh threatening from you - and so he pulls away, pushing the covers back.

"Just keep your eyes closed, ok babe?" he says, hands exploring your pajamas (and what's beneath), and he sidles downwards. "You just relax. I'm gonna enjoy myself for a bit."

"Enjoy yourself all you want." Your voice is a little thick, a little hazy. Perfect. And from just a few touches? A kiss? You'd missed him as much as he'd missed you - Bucky's sure of it. He can hear your heart beat picking up rapidly. All the agony of waiting - of having watched you across room, unable to touch you or even make eye contact without compromising the mission - seems tied up in these tender moments. Bucky memorizes the soft whimpers forming in your mouth as he trails kisses down your stomach to your hips. And there - his lips fasten to your sensitive skin, as if to try to implant your taste to his tongue forever.

If only he could.

His blood is rushing as he hoists one of your knees over his shoulder, sucking in a breath of your scent so close to his nose. You're squirming - Bucky likes that he can do that to you - and he groans as your fingers find his hair to tangle in it.

Damn, he missed this. Every noise, every touch, every taste - every second of burning arousal that curls his toes, that has every hair on his body standing on end in wild anticipation. Two weeks apart? Felt more like two lifetimes. Finally, feeling that perhaps he should curb his own eagerness, Bucky pulls away slightly to nuzzle the soft skin of your thigh.

"Ugh, we didn't used to do this in my day," he laments. "WIsh we had."

A throaty laugh from you, and he glances over with a grin to see your lazy smile beaming down at him. "That's not true. Plenty of people have done this for centuries."

"Fine. But it wasn't exactly common knowledge in my day."

You hmm a little hum. "And how am I supposed to take the pronouncement that you wish you could do this with other girls?"

"Ooo, possessive, are we?" Bucky grins as he nips the inside of your thigh, making you squirm. And laugh.

"As if you haven't spent the last week with your nutsack in a knot over my cuddling up to a target for vital information!"

"Excuse you, I was incredibly professional."

"Oh, please. I could read you from a hundred yards away. You were  _not_ happy."

"Well, maybe not. Were you?" Bucky lifts a brow expectantly. But your lips stay curled in a lovely smile.

"I am now."

His heart leaps from his chest. Abandoning his adoration between your legs, Bucky hoists himself up and crawls above you, drinking in your lovely, lusty eyes, still fastened on his face. Your arms wind around his neck as he lowers his head to nibble a kiss or two on your throat.

With definite dexterity but maybe not elegance, your toes trail up his leg and hook into the waistband of his briefs. A yank - and they snag on, well, a  _hook,_  which happens to be a bit sensitive at present. Bucky groans, and reaches down to pull his briefs over their obstacle. Your laughter in his ears is such a pleasant sound he nearly forgets to be embarrassed.

"Don't laugh, babe," he grumbles, not really meaning it. And from the sparkle in your fond gaze, you have no intention of obeying.

Bucky had intended to love you all day long, over and over again, showing great skill and tact in a refresher course of every method of loving that both he and you enjoy immensely. Probably to be repeated in the shower, or kitchen, or anywhere else - since the town house is empty. But those thoughts are forgotten. Right now, only one thought: show you how much he missed you. How much he wants you. Arousal? Now bearable. Outweighed by the sweetness of your glance, the beauty of your smile, and the little tingles that break out across his skin as he takes advantage of his position to pay your breasts some belated attention before aligning his hips with yours.

A long sigh escapes your lips - relief? Perhaps. Your eyes have fluttered shut, and Bucky feels the prints of your fingers in his shoulders. His legs nearly give out - with a groan, he closes his eyes, too - he doesn't remember being this sensitive before. Every little twitch has his stomach tightening, and a brief fear of finishing before you pops his eyes back open.

You're grinning.

"Missed me?" you tease lightly, fingertips tracing nonsense on his back. More goosebumps.

"Yeah," Bucky says hoarsely. "So much."

"Luckily you're back where you belong."

Oh, that mischief in your eyes. He chortles, a little breathlessly, before lowering his head to kiss you for all he's worth. He can't stall much longer, but you're apparently fine with that - you meet his every thrust with a roll of your hips. Expert movements, perfected by practice and the intimate affection you share.

Bucky tears his lips from yours, burying his face into the sweet slope of your neck. Little kisses, some sucking and you'll have to wear a scarf. Oh well. Now his ears prick up at the sweet sounds falling from your lips like a prayer - his name mingled with some things that made sense, some things that didn't - he doesn't care. He's trying to hold himself together.

The moment your pulsating climax begins, Bucky loses it. Not surprising. As his muscles clench across his entire body, his vision whiting out slightly - he bites his lip to keep from groaning too loud, intent on finishing the job for you no matter how it pains his overly-sensitive parts. Wildly, feeling as though he's losing control of something, he reaches above to brace his metal hand against the headboard. It helps. And a moment later your moans soften, and turn to little sighs of contentment.

Bucky peeks open an eye. Your eyes are closed, a blissful smile on your face as you lazily trace the fine hairs on his bum. It tickles. He doesn't care.

"Thank you," you murmur.

"Huh?"

"It's so good to be back."

Bucky laughs a little. "Where you belong too, huh?"

"Mmhmm."

The words are strangely weighted, and uncomfortable in the overly intimate moment, Bucky pulls out with a wince, falling onto his back beside you. His heart is still pumping. Oh well. Immediately he rolls onto his side to pull you close.

Your eyes are glittering a thousand emotions, but it's your smile that draws his gaze. Wrapping you into an embrace, Bucky amuses himself by playing with some of your hair. The tip of your index finger traces the ridge where his metal arms meets his scarred shoulder. He should care about that. But he doesn't.

"You're beautiful," Bucky says a moment later, without thinking. Your little laugh makes him smile.

"And here I just thought you liked me because I can kick your butt," you tease.

"Kick my butt? I resent that!"

"You know it's true, Barnes. I'm way too hot. You get distracted."

"Well...that might be true, but…"

"But nothing."

Brow quirked, you poke his chest, and Bucky rubs the pained spot with an offended, "Ow!" But with your giggles, he just settles for some light-hearted grumbling, and pulls you back into his embrace. You settle back in, thankfully with minimal poking.

Yes, everyone is right where they should be. Including Clint:  _not there_.

"Mmm, Bucky?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"If we stay here I'm gonna fall asleep again."

With a regretful sigh, Bucky hoists you into a sitting position as you stretch your arms above your head with a yawn. The golden morning light splits around your body.

More than beautiful. Breathtakingly magnificent. How had he gotten so lucky?

More than lucky. There's not even a word for it.

"Breakfast?" you ask cheerily, fishing around for your discarded pajamas.

"Whatever you want, babe." Bucky pulls on his briefs. And some shorts. And a shirt. If there's cooking involved, a layer of protection might be ideal.

"Where are my clothes?" you mumble after a moment, as he stands and stretches out some stiffness left in his limbs from sleep.

"Hmm?"

"My pajamas. You threw them somewhere, but I can't find them."

"Er - sorry." Bucky shrugs. "You can eat breakfast naked. I won't mind."

Your eyes peep up at him from over the edge of the bed. "Would you like that?" you tease. "Because it sounds uncomfortable to me. And you'd probably burn your fingers cooking because you can't look away from  _this_." You stand - making your point as Bucky swallows thickly - but you wander over to his strewn bags, and rummage through. One his his own long-sleeve shirts, and a pair of his boxers. Right over your head, right over your legs.

"Presumptuous," he teases.

"You lose my clothes, I wear yours," you shoot back, grinning a beaming smile that makes Bucky want to pull his clothes right off you. He might, still.

"So," you add casually, fluffing up your hair. "Do you think Stark will notice that we only used one bedroom?"

Bucky chortles. "Stark's no secret agent."

"Still," you say with a laugh. "Wouldn't feel right not covering our tracks. It's habit, isn't it?"

"You saying you wanna mess up another bed?" Bucky asks, quirking a brow as your eyes dance.

"How about after breakfast?"


	9. Explosion in Tokyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission less than successful in Tokyo, and Bucky pays the price.

"Get back! Everybody, get back!"

The words are repeated over a police intercom, bellowing over the confused, pressing crowd in the street as you choke, dust filling your throat as you stumble through the collapsed glass door at the front of the building. Steve had crashed it open - you'll have to thank him later.

"Lift your feet," you croak to Nat, who's hanging off your shoulder. She's biting her lip so hard that blood is beading on her skin, but with a furrowed brow she does. Boots crunch on the glass, and you're out of the building.

At once Steve is there, hurried over from where he'd been securing the perimeter with Clint. Natasha's weight is lifted from you by Steve, and you stumble down the concrete steps towards the sidewalk, thankfully emptied by the police.

"Where's Bucky?" Steve says shortly, hauling Nat into his arms.

"Um - he's still inside." Your eyes are burning from the dust - desperately you want to rub them, but your hands are just as dirty, if not more. Blinking several times, you turn to gaze at the building behind you.

It's teetering. The bomb which the team had been  _trying_  to get to before it exploded had, in fact, exploded. That the man holding it had decided to rush into a residential building in the heart of Tokyo was clever of him, maybe, but it's not like he can gloat about it. Not anymore. Thanks to Tony's quick thinking, a fire alarm had been triggered inside, clearing out most of the residents before the bomb had gone off. Now there's just smoke curling from shattered windows, and strange flickers of flame in the interior. Only floors 6, 7, and 8 are busted. Which is impressive, all things considered. But there's still a sick feeling twisting your stomach.

"Why is he still inside?" Emergency personnel are rushing forward to help Natasha, so Steve is quickly freed to continue interrogating you.

"I don't know!" you snap back. "He just said - he said to get out. He said he had something to do and then he'd come after us - "

Steve curses. Very colorfully. "I'm going back in," he grumbles, slinging down his shield from his back.

"You can't. Bucky won't want you to."

"Maybe you don't know him like I do, Agent, but Bucky's a little too eager to sacrifice himself," Steve retorts, his eyes blazing blue as he faces you down. It's not often that he uses his size to his advantage - and you're certainly feeling it. Lifting your chin, you barely keep your voice from trembling,

"It's his choice, Steve. Whatever he's doing - he can obviously do alone." Since he hadn't asked  _your_  help - he'd sent you away with Nat. Maybe that accounts for some of the sting in your chest.

"That's crap and you know it, 28. Bucky isn't - "

The wail of sirens increases briefly. Over the intercom, the babbling Japanese gets more shrill. Then there's static in your ear, and you wince at the same time as Steve as Tony's voice cuts through.

"There's another bomb the perp left in a laundry chute," Stark says briskly. "Please tell me everyone's out."

Your stomach drops to your feet. The horror numbing you from head to toes is reflected in Steve's widening eyes. The pulsing  _thud-thud_ of your heartbeat is very loud in your ears, the murmurs and panicking of the crowd very far away. Without thinking you turn back towards the building, taking a surge forward with legs that weigh a thousand pounds. But then there's a vice on your arm, and you jerk back, blinking.

"You can't. You can't."

Steve. His voice is shaking, his eyes glittering with despair. But you can't break from his grip, even as your fingers try to claw him away. It's no use. Obviously.

Suddenly a shout in the crowd breaks through your haze.  _Look_.

"Bucky," Steve groans. "Bucky, no - "

Your head swivels up, eyes searching desperately - there's a leg poking through the eleventh story window. Bucky's boots - you can recognize them anywhere. Then a head is peering out.

"A net! Can we get a net? A ladder?" Steve is saying desperately, to people you can't see. "Where's Sam? Tony?"

Sam's in New York. He hadn't come. And Tony's monitoring from across town with the local armed forces.

A rumbling starts two floor beneath Bucky. Finally you jerk your arm away from Steve, though you can do nothing - not without killing yourself, too. And black smoke is billowing through windows, around Bucky as he climbs onto the ledge of the window, and...

...and  _jumps_.

The  _idiot._

He's barely more than a misshapen black speck against the roar of orange and yellow flames that are flickering through the nearest three stories of windows. Your breath is caught in your throat as you watch his descent, terror and dread churning ruthlessly in your gut, nausea rising, as your vision seems narrowed in on the sight; white spots popping all around -

Bucky hits an awning at the ground level of the building at a roll, and straight onto the pavement for several feet before coming to a stop. His body is curled in on itself, utterly still. Disregarding any warnings from the police (or Tony, in your ear), you run to his side, Steve hot on your heels.

"Bucky," you mutter, your hand forming a print on his black jacket from dust as you grip his shoulder. "Bucky."

He groans, and as Steve sinks to his knees on Bucky's other side - there's a little choked cry. Not from Bucky.

"Damn," Steve mutters. Gingerly he shifts Bucky's arm out of the way. Wide, shining eyes peer out. A little girl covered in soot, and in her arms - clutching a tiny grey kitten yowling in protest. "I got you," Steve says softly to the girl, and with a trepidated glance at him, she wiggles out of Bucky's limp arms. She's fine. The cat's offended though, clawing up the girl's dirty shirt. The girl gives a sniff, and then tears are tracking down the dirt on her face as she tries to stand, with Steve holding her hand.

"She okay?" Bucky's mumble is weak.

"She's okay, Buck."

"Her mom was out shopping," Bucky says, breaking into a cough. "Didn't want to leave the building alone."

"I'll take her to the police," Steve says. "Come on." And though the girl probably doesn't speak much English, she's happy to hold Captain America's hand, as he stands to lead her away from the quaking building, towards the crowd of people hovering.

"Bucky," you grind out between your teeth, and waste no time to check his bones for breaks. He winces, and you hiss, "What were you thinking, huh? You could have  _told_  us there was someone else in the building. We could have arranged a fire truck with a ladder -  _something_  - you absolute idiot - "

"Good to see you too," Bucky says, the slightest smile curling his lips as he gazes up at you. And promptly groans, squeezing his eyes shut as you push gently on his ribs.

"At least two or three broken," you say dryly. "Where else?"

"Um - my wrist - " His brows are furrowed as he pulls his flesh arm up to rest on his stomach. Bile riles in your throat at the sight of the misshapen appendage.

"Why didn't you use your metal arm to break your fall? Hmm?"

"Was holding her. Better - protection."

Fine. You'll allow it. "Can you stand?" you ask briskly. Hoping that no one is looking - you cup his chin gently, peering into his eyes to search for other damage. His face is remarkably unhurt; only some streaks of dust and a scrape on his cheekbone.

"I can stand. If you let me lean on you a bit, babe."

"Of course. There's an ambulance here already. We don't have to go far."

Bucky grunts, and you clasp his metal hand as he tries to sit up. Then there's the sound of running footsteps, and you peer around to see Clint rushing forward. There's blood trickling down his face, but he wastes no time grasping Bucky's opposite shoulder.

"You look awful," Clint pronounces, and together you manage to get Bucky to his feet, though he teeters weakly.

"Thanks, Barton," Bucky says dryly. "Since you look so spectacular."

It's only a few more steps to the ambulance, where you see Natasha sitting on the bumper with ice on her head. A few nurses rush forward towards Bucky, and suddenly his weight is lifted from you. Hanging behind, you gnaw on your lip as you watch as he's swallowed by the professionals. Clint shakes his head beside you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Oh, sure. I caught a granny from a second story window but Barnes is gonna get all the good press. Typical."

"You caught a granny from a second story?" you ask, blinking up at him.

"Well - yeah. She couldn't take the stairs and the elevator was out."

"Very impressive," you tease. "Bet she'll have a crush on you now."

Clint's face turns beet red. Joking is so easy, but this time - it doesn't detract as much as you would've liked.

* * *

Still snivelling a bit, you tiptoe from your room in Stark's Tokyo condo, silently closing the door behind you. It's been hours since returning from the detonation scene, but you'd had to wait for hours in impatient misery while everyone slowly cleaned up and went to bed. Dawn will be arriving in only a few hours, but Steve had only stopped puttering around in his room next to yours a half hour ago. He'd better be asleep. Because you're about ready to  _make_  him sleep.

Your footsteps barely make any noise - but to someone with super-hearing, it might be an elephant going down the hall. The thought makes you bite your lip; with the team sleeping at such close quarters, you might not have risked it otherwise. But you had to.

Bucky's door.

Lifting a hand, you let the pad of your index finger.  _Tap, tap tap. Tap, tap tap._ Secret code, so quiet that you can barely hear it. But Bucky can - a moment later, and there's a groaning and a creak from inside his room. Probably the best welcome you'll get. You silently push the handle of the door, sneaking into the darkened room, where only the glittering lights of Tokyo are visible beyond the sheer curtains.

You close the door.

"Hey," Bucky mumbles. He's sitting upright in bed, shirtless, with bandages around his middle and his flesh hand in a temporary cast and slung next to his chest. But otherwise, he's looking fine - a grin lifts his lips as you let out a shaky breath, stepping quickly to his side, sinking onto the bed beside him.

"Bucky." Though he's hurting, you wrap your arms around his neck, trying not to jostle him. He groans.

"Babe. Ow." His metal fingers curl around your upper arm, but he doesn't try to push you away. Instead, his nose buries in your hair, and he breathes deeply. Finally you pull away, but only a little. You tangle your fingers in his still-dusty hair - he must not have been able to shower. Suddenly his metal fingers are tilting your chin upwards, and you're forced to meet his eyes. He's frowning now, eyes flickering back and forth from yours as you offer a rueful smile.

"Those tears for me?" he asks roughly.

"No, they're for Clint," you retort, voice thick. "Come on, Buck. We thought you were a goner."

To your surprise, Bucky chuckles. "Takes more than a homemade bomb to get rid of me, babe. Promise."

"No getting rid of you. You're not allowed to die," you declare.

"No?" Bucky asks, eyes sparkling.

"Never. Well - only if I go first."

His lips twitch. "Aha. Bold words, for someone who spent all evening sobbing her little heart out."

"All evening?" you say, aghast. "Bucky, what an exaggeration - "

"I could hear you," he reminds you. "I'm not deaf, you know. Even if we are three rooms apart."

"Ugh." You scrunch your nose. "I can't imagine having to listen to Clint and Natasha and Steve all night long."

Bucky's expression falls into one of woeful resignation. "Don't."

This pulls a watery chuckle from you, and you cup his face in your hands, tracing the scruff on his jaw with your thumb. He grins again, his eyes intent on your face as you sigh.

"It's sweet that you care for me," Bucky teases next, and he pinches your chin between his metal thumb and forefinger. "I'm glad my girl would mourn my tragic death."

" _Mourn_  you? Bucky, I  _love_ you - if you died I would - "

His eyes widen, and he cuts you off with, "What?"

You blink back. "What?"

"You love me?" There's a giddy sort of light in his eyes now, as his smile broadens.

"Of course I do," you say, a little confused.

"You've never said that before."

"Oh." Your face feels hot. "Well, I guess I didn't think...I mean, I figured you already knew."

Bucky's hand is trailing up your back now, and mesmerized by the darkening in his eyes, you swallow thickly.

"Tell me more," he murmurs. You draw in a shaky breath.

"I love you," you whisper, tangling your fingers in Bucky's hair. "I've loved you for months. I...I'm so in love with you I couldn't even think straight when you were in danger today. It's just...it's just you. Always."

"Just me?" he whispers back.

"Just you. I...could say more I suppose...but my wit is not at its peak right now. I don't even know why," you add, with a rueful smile. "Everything that I was going to say to you, it's just...gone. I can't even think about it. It's just you, Bucky."

Bucky shifts slightly on the bed. "My ma would say that's because we're soulmates. When you can't think of anyone but that one person...it's fate."

Silence. Baffled, you say with a frown, "Not many people believe in soulmates anymore."

"And in my day, we thought cigarettes were healthy - didn't stop my dad dying of lung cancer. Doesn't matter what people believe, babe. Some things are true no matter if they're believed in or not."

"Like you being big ol' sap," you tease, and Bucky chortles.

"Yep. Like that."

The blue of his eyes, even as dim as they are in the room, are wonderful to drown in. Holding his face still, you lean in to kiss him - gently, at first, and then hints of your desperation and panic from earlier start leaking - emotions are bubbling, and you whimper as he nips at your lips.

"I'm sorry," you say shakily, pulling away. "I know you're in pain, I just...I was scared. Watching you fall…" More tears are burning now, and you rest your forehead against Bucky's.

"Hey, it's okay," he murmurs, his breath warm on your face as his metal fingers tangle in your hair. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I know."

"I love you," you say again - there's a strange shyness with the words, but they feel strong.

Bucky grins. "I love you, too." And then his lips find yours again, pretty fiercely considering his state - and an explosion of heat - this time less dangerous - racks over your body, and you tremble.

"Bucky," you whimper, and he pulls away. His eyes are dark, his teasing smile gone - and as you shift on the bed you feel - "Oh, give me a break!" you say, bursting into startled laughter. "Leave it to you to get a boner after falling eleven stories."

"Hey," Bucky protests, though his ears are red. "You just told me you love me. How am I supposed to respond?"

"You're a mess!" you tease. "You should be moaning and groaning and telling me to go away because I'm just gonna make your wounds worse."

He chortles. "Takes a lot more than that to make me worse off. What do you say? Everyone's finally asleep - it's just you and me, babe."

Your fingers curl around the ends of his hair. "One condition?"

"Mm?"

"You let me help you shower afterwards."

"That's hardly a condition," Bucky says, eyes glinting. "More like an extra reward."

"Then you accept?"

"Of  _course_."

His gaze doesn't leave you as you stand, shedding your sweater first, and then your shirt. In fact, his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes seem to devour every bit of skin revealed as you toss your clothes aside. To be so desired is  _wonderful_ , and by the man you love, who loves you back…

A gentle tugging gets Bucky's pants off, and holding him steady by the shoulders so he doesn't jostle, you climb into his lap, still holding his gaze boldly. His head leans back against the headboard, and you see his adam's apple bob in a swallow.

"Jeepers! I should fall outta buildings more often," he says fervently.

Your smile freezes. "Don't you  _dare_ , grandpa."

" _Grandpa_?"

"You start talking like a geezer, I'm gonna call you grandpa," you tease softly. Bucky blinks - but he doesn't - or can't - say anything else.

Because he's wounded or because they're something else tinted in the air - you move slowly, eyes fastened on Bucky's. He's drinking you in, and little flutters start in your stomach. Even with only one hand in commission, he's intent on touching you everywhere - your breasts, your waist, your back. Then up to your throat, and your eyes close with the cool metal tracing on your jawline. The heat spreading from your center is travelling across your body, sparking and igniting every cell as it goes, and Bucky's sudden soft groan sets you over the edge.

Stars explode, and your bite your tongue to keep from making any noise. A huff of breath from him, and his hips jerk up as he shudders. Then all is quiet again - and you loose a shaky breath as you dare to open your eyes again.

Bucky's smiling.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world, you know that?" he says softly, and leans forward to capture your lips in a fervid kiss.

"Are you sure?" you mumble back, as his lips nibble at yours. "I can think of a few billion other men luckier than you. They didn't fall eleven stories today."

He laughs against your lips, and smiling, you wrap your arms around his neck to kiss him back, fiercely.

"You already knew I love you, huh?" you say into his mouth, twirling strands of his hair around your finger. Bucky pulls away, his eyes positively glinting as his lips twist into a smirk.

"'Course I did. I'm a super spy, remember?"

And you laugh, and kiss him again and again.

The first pink streaks of dawn begin to brighten the room sometime later, and dozing against Bucky's leg as he runs his fingers through your hair, you stir without any sense of urgency, though your mind is trying to tell you something...probably.

"What time is it?" you mumble.

"Um - 5:53 a.m."

"Shoot! Steve's alarm is going off in seven minutes." Surging up to a sitting position, you swing your legs over the bed and start to grab your scattered clothes. Bucky just chuckles. Typical.

"It's kinda nice not to be the one running out," he teases.

"Don't get use to it," you retort, casting him a wink over your shoulder. "As soon as you're better, you come to me. I can't walk as silently as you can."

"Sure, babe. But you do a pretty good job for someone who hasn't had any super-serum in her. Apart from what I've contributed, I mean."

You give a laugh, dragging on underwear and sweats. "Wow! You're a pervert tonight, aren't you?"

"Um - you do know  _you_ seduced  _me_ , right? How am  _I_ the pervert?"

Clutching your sweater but deciding against it, you lean over the bed to kiss Bucky one last time, hungrily and regretfully. "I forgot your shower," you say ruefully. "But you make sure you get one, mmkay? Before the flight back to New York, please. I wouldn't mind finagling a seat next to you."

"You'll probably have to fight everyone else to sit by me," Bucky jokes. "They'll all want to fawn over the sicky."

You roll your eyes. "If that's how you're gonna be, I'm sitting by Clint."

"What! Hey - "

But you ignore his soft protests, sauntering towards the door with a final, cheeky wave in his direction before opening the door handle as  _q - u - i - e - t - l - y_  as possible. A silent close. Then you're tiptoeing back to your room, cheeks warm, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling too giddily.

Soulmates, Bucky had said.

Soulmates.

The word  _tingles_.

Maybe his mother knew what she was talking about.


	10. Operation: Wedding Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky returns home from a mission and you have a proposal for him. But what will the rest of the team say to that?

The tap on the glass window above your kitchen sink startles you - jolting away from the stove and immediately reaching for the holster on your thigh - empty, because you're at home - your heart begins to race fiercely in your chest until you realize that those eyes peering in aren't an enemy - but Bucky. You let out a long sigh, shaking your head with a smile as you reach above the sink to unlock the window.

"I do have a front door, you know," you say dryly, helping to push the window up all the way. His returning grin is cheeky.

"But this is so much more exciting."

This window is smaller than the one in your bedroom. But Bucky is good at getting through tight spaces, apparently - a few grunts and groans, a boot in the sink (luckily it's empty), and finally he ducks his head inside. After that it's just a matter of squirming the rest of his body through, and he jumps down the floor. And closes the window for you, like the gentleman he is.

"Hello," you say belatedly, and he spins around with a grin. But Bucky doesn't reply right away - instead he wraps his arms around your waist, planting a very thorough kiss on your lips until you're breathless. Finally he moves his hot lips to your neck, tasting and nibbling as you giggle. "Welcome home, Bucky. Mission went well?"

"Yeah, it did. But I missed you." Lifting his head, Bucky gives a little pout that makes you laugh again. "So, what's for dinner, babe?"

"Well," you squirm out of his embrace, ignoring his sigh of disappointment. "Some protein. Some carbs. Some micronutrients. Typical stuff."

"And dessert?"

You glance over at him, admiring as he yanks off his baseball cap to run his fingers through his limp hair. A wild smile grows on your face.  _"I am dessert."_

Bucky stares. And then his smile matches yours. "Good. I'm  _starving_."

Smirking, you give your attention back to the cutting board and the veggies you'd arranged neatly to be chopped. Bucky leans against the counter, eyes still on you.

"You've got some knife skills," he remarks.

"'Course I do. You already knew that."

"Well, I knew you could slice hamstrings. Carrots are different."

You laugh. "Are they though? Why don't you go put your boots by the door and stay a while."

"Yes,  _ma'am_." Bucky sidles past you, his hands slipping to your waist as he nuzzles behind your ear. Shiver break out across your skin, and you give a little sigh. You'd missed him. You'd missed this. Bucky going on missions without you is probably the worst thing ever invented. But you'd better not tell him that.

"I like that obedience," you tease instead.

"I like  _this_." And he pinches your behind, and you laugh as he disappears.

There seems to be a bit of pep in your step now, from fridge to stove to chopping board. Some extra excitement. Some anticipation. Some…

Bucky returns, and you peer at him to admire the tight t-shirt he's wearing. Those combat pants, a little low on his hips since he'd clearly taken off his belt. And his hair is pushed back, but his smile is still there.

Some Bucky.

"So, you sneaked off to see me first thing?" you tease.

"Of course. You think I wanted to stay and listen to Clint moaning about his broken nose? Sam's play-by-play replay of his own heroics?" Again Bucky is behind you, but this time a little lazier, wrapping his arms round your front to pull you back to his chest.

"You wanted to come eat my supper."

"Of course."

"I'll probably have to water it down."

Bucky shrugs. "That's what we used to do in my day. Besides, I can fill up on dessert."

"Ooo." You tilt your head back to give him a wink. "I like the sound of that."

His voice is low and husky in your ear. "So...do you have any hard and fast rules against dessert first?"

You turn off the stove. "Nope."

"Good." Bucky wastes no time pulling on the ties of your apron and throwing it to the ground before pulling you 'round. Standing on your tiptoes, you wind your arm around his neck for a long, languorous sort of kiss that tastes like gunsmoke and stale Bucky and lonely nights and a very tantalizing one to come. Then, suddenly, he pulls away.

"What's this music?" he asks, brows pinching.

"It's what I listen to while I cook," you tell him, trying to tug him back into a kiss. "Um...it reminds me of you, a bit."

Bucky blinks down at you, a haze of bafflement and wonder clouding his eyes - which quickly parts to fondness as he kisses the tip of your nose. "Aww babe, you have a playlist for me."

"Don't make me regret it," you laugh, and finally he kisses you again. It's not long until you're gasping for breath, and your bra has been thrown across the kitchen, and a tent in Bucky's pants has you giggling. "You really did miss me," you murmur, reaching down a hand to cop a little feel. He squirms at your touch, and the pinched expression brings you no end of amusement.

"I did," Bucky says hoarsely, and right on queue - a rumbling from his stomach clearly deepens his discomfort, and you raise a brow.

"Hungry, Sergeant?"

"Uh...yeah."

"Let's get back to dinner then. Dessert later."

He sighs, but unwinds himself from you anyway. " _Fine_."

You turn the stove back on.

Bucky hums a bit, off-key to the music still playing as he wanders around the kitchen. As you labor at the stove, he pulls open every single cupboard to find the necessary for dining. It's irresistible to watch him out of the corner of your eye. His cute bum. So maybe you'd missed him too.

"Wanna tell me about the mission?" you ask, to make conversation.

But Bucky, filling cups with ice water, shrugs. "Nothing too exciting. Just busted up a strip club. Trafficking. Drugs. Some weird mind control thing SHIELD is trying to sort out. That sort of thing."

"That sort of thing will never end," you say with a sigh. "Tough circuit to run. Did it once. Didn't have the stomach to do it again."

A pause. Then Bucky is back beside you, arms crossed as a grin grows on his face. "Tell me more?"

"Not much more to tell," you say, a little testily. "I went undercover as a stripper after I'd been an agent for about a year or so. It was a simple mission - had to root out a pimp bringing in underage girls from Cambodia under the radar. Took about two weeks. Guy went to jail. Girls went to women's shelters before going back home. But I was nauseous the entire time I was typing up the reports."

Bucky's lips are pressed in a thin line. He's clearly suppressing his amusement - which is fair - it had been some time ago and you're lucky to be able to talk about it without wanting to barf. But you sigh, all the same.

"Agents that work that circuit deserve a higher pay grade," you say.

"True. Still. Wish I could've been there."

"Seriously?" you take one look at Bucky's expression, and laugh. "You wouldn't have been able to keep your eyes off me."

"Maybe so."

"Would've forgotten to search the back rooms for information."

"Is that what your partner did?"

"Yep."

"Lame."

"It was our  _job_ ," you enunciate with exasperation. "And it was  _ugly_.

"You're right," Bucky says at once, and the lingering smile slides off his face. "I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to make light of it."

"It's okay." Dinner's almost ready. You flip off the stove, and cast a wry smile at Bucky. "Look, if you really want to ask me if I can show you a move or two, just say so and be done with it."

His eyes light up at once. "No way."

"Eat first, pal. I don't want to listen to your rumbling tummy all night."

"Yes,  _ma'am_."

The dining table is a little tight for two people, but Bucky doesn't mind. He likes the coziness. He likes your knees knocking into his, and he likes seeing every little emotion flitting in your eyes. Affection, mostly. Fondness. Humor, as he explains how Clint had accidently dumped over an entire rack of taser arrows on the the Quinjet, detonating one or two as he'd fumbled out of the way. And how his hair had smoked for two hours afterwards.

"Clint Barton, human disaster," Bucky chortles, repeating an idiom frequented by the team.

"Poor Clint," you say, sighing a little. "It's awful to be the scapegoat, isn't it? But here I am grateful that people are usually too busy teasing him to notice us."

"Or maybe we're just really good at hiding it," Bucky suggests. You burst into laughter, shaking your head.

"The way you were looking at me over last Friday night's poker game? I thought the table might go up in flames!"

"Only because you were lookin' so hot, babe."

"See what I mean?"

Bucky gives you a wink, and you laugh again.

Dinner is delicious, and the promised dessert, even better. Bucky is reluctant to leave that night; your warm bed is just too enticing, that night. And you? More so. He likes having you tucked up into his side, tracing little patterns on his chest with your fingertips. He likes tangling his fingers in your hair, wafting your sweet smell into his nose, and your presence into his soul.

"Bucky?" you murmur after a few moments.

"Yeah, babe?"

"I'm going to my cousin's wedding in a few weeks. I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus one."

It takes exactly 0.23 seconds for Bucky to decide. "Sure. I'd love to go."

"Yeah?"

"Of course. Dunno what I'm gonna tell Stark, though," he adds, watching the streaking lights from the headlights of a car play across the ceiling, and disappear.

"Oh, I'll take care of that," you say dismissively.

"Yeah? What are ya gonna do?"

"You know. The usual."

"You gonna be a bad influence?"

"Of _course_  I'm gonna be a bad influence." You chuckle a little, tracking the fine hair on his chest as he sucks in a breath. Then your eyes flit back up to his. "But really, you don't mind?"

"Nah, it'll be fun. We won't have to hide that we're dating," Bucky says with a chortle. "Right?"

"Right!" you laugh. "Sheesh - how am I even going to cope with holding hands with you in public?"

"Ugh, the horror! And I can kiss you in front of people? That's gonna be a tough one to manage," Bucky teases back, and pokes his cold metal fingers into your side, making you yelp and squirm. Then, of course, there's more teasing and the more kissing, and Bucky doesn't get back to Avengers Tower for a very long time.

* * *

"By the way, Tony," you say casually over the muted sounds of the television, clearly ignoring that the rest of the team in the room can hear you, too, "My cousin's getting married in a couple weeks. I need a few days off."

"Sure," Tony says from where he's sprawled in a recliner, riveted to his phone. "Need a jet, too?"

"I think I can handle a commercial airline, but thanks."

Bucky can see, even across the room, the twinkle in your eyes. Though you don't look at him (you're busy braiding Natasha's hair), he senses an opportunity about to present itself as you continue,

"I do need a date though."

"I'll be your date, babygirl," Sam says at once, as Bucky clenches his jaw. He does  _not_  like seeing Sam's wink in your direction from across the room, nor even your answering grin.

"Aren't you still on the Whaller Debates case, Sammy?" you ask innocently. "The hearing's that week."

Sam's smile freezes. "Shoot."

"Nice try," Steve says with a laugh at Sam's expense. "I'd volunteer to help you out myself, 28, but I'm on the case too."

"It was a long shot," you say, sighing dramatically. Bucky fancies that he's the only one that can see the mischief in your face. Or maybe he just knows you better. It makes him grin, as he taps his fingers against his knee.

"Hey, if I talk to Pepper…" Tony starts, but your laugh cuts him off.

"I'm not gonna be party to that, Tony. I have to draw a line somewhere."

"What about Clint?" Natasha asks. Briskly tying off the end of the first braid with a hair tie, you drop a plait on her shoulder. Clint, asleep in a chair to your left, doesn't move. His snores continue unabated.

"Asked him already. He said no," you say with another world-weary sigh. Threading your fingers through the other half of Nat's hair, you start to separate it into sections with a little frown on your face. Bucky finds it adorable and hilarious the way you're playing the room. He just has to wait for his moment. Briefly your eyes flicker to him, expectant, but Bucky only winks in return.

General attention has returned to the movie. But Bucky wasn't that invested in the first place - he's been considering whether he should have sat across the room when he could've sat beside you on the couch, and probably not raised a single eyebrow. There's an empty place there, which he eyes greedily.

Then Natasha is continuing the conversation with you, albeit quietly, and Bucky eavesdrops without a hint of remorse.

"It's pretty dangerous to take a friend as a date to a wedding," she's saying. "Haven't you seen any movies?"

"'Course I have."

"They always end up dating, 28. So who do you want to fall in love with and be with forever? All it takes is the right setting and one night of passion..."

Bucky constrains a laugh, turning it into a cough. Steve eyes him suspiciously.

"Nat, please. I'm not going to get into a long-term relationship after just one night of passion." You pause, tying off her second braid. "It's gotta be three, at least."

Steve snickers, and even Sam chuckles a little - Bucky takes this as he wasn't the only one listening in, so he chortles, too.

"Wow, 28. Such high standards you have," Sam teases.

"Hey, if I'm gonna be with the dude the rest of my life," you point out, winking at Sam as you toss Nat's second braid on her shoulder. At that moment, Bucky throws caution to the wind - he doesn't want to ignore you  _too_  much when the others are around, after all, or that could make them just as suspicious. So he stands, to Tony's protest of blocking out the screen.

"Me next," Bucky rumbles, walking over to you. Nat scrambles out of the way, hoisting herself into the empty seat at your side. But he's only looking at you - that glint in your eye, daring him.

"Oh! Didn't even see you there, Tin-man," Sam jokes.

"Ha, ha," Bucky says.

"Sit," you say to him, pointing to the ground between your legs. Perfect. Bucky scoots down to the floor, back to the couch with your legs trapping him in. Well, it doesn't feel like trapping - not from you. More like a little leg-hug. He grins to himself as you start to run your fingers through his loose hair. "Any special requests?" you ask lightly, as goosebumps begin to spark across his scalp.

"Erm - whatever you like." Whatever keeps you busy touching him the longest, more like.

"I can't believe you're touching Tin-man's greasy mop." Sam will not be denying more harassing. Bucky peeks over at him with a glare, but can't put too much force in it - your touch is lulling him.

"When's the last time you showered?" you ask Bucky, fingers pausing. In on the joke. Of course you are.

"This morning," Bucky grumbles. "Thanks for that, by the way, 28. You really know how to make a fella feel good."

Your soft giggles bring a creeping smile to his face, all the same.

"Hey, why don't you take Bucky?" Natasha says suddenly.

"Can we not just watch this movie in peace?" Tony asks loudly, and is ignored.

"Bucky?" you ask, feigning surprise. Bucky can feel as you start to tug his hair into a braid, and tingles break out.

"Why not? He's not on the Whaller Debates case, and he can really spook the rest of your family. I mean, if you want him to," Natasha suggests. You hum, as if in thought. Bucky feels that it's time to step in. Wringing a straight answer out of you sometimes is like pulling fingernails. Which he knows from experience, because he's done both.

"I wouldn't mind," he says, casual-like. "It's been a while since I've met a dame's parents, though. I might be a little rusty." Should he mention that's already spoken to members of your family a time or two on video call in the last ten months? Nah.

"You gonna set a kitchen on fire?" Sam asks lazily. "Or shoot a party guest?"

"Only if 28 asks me to," Bucky says with a shrug.

"Aww," you coo. "See, Nat? He's just being nice."

"Is that what girls are into these days?" Steve asks, bemused. "A willingness to assassinate family members they don't like?" Gales of laughter ring through the room, causing more grumbles from Tony and Clint to snort and shift in his sleep. And you yank on Bucky's hair, thankfully gently, as you tie off the braid. You'd only done one, and he bites back a moan as your fingers fluff it up.

"Done," you say. "What do you say, Bucky? Wanna be my wedding date?"

"What's in it for me?" Bucky teases.

"A few free meals and a break from these bozos."

"Gosh, yes. I'm in."

"Ah, yes, the way to a man's heart," Natasha says sardonically. "Food and isolation."

"Hey, don't knock it," Clint mumbles from his chair. A startled moment, and the team starts to laugh again. "What?" he grumbles.

"I'll send you the color of my dress so you can match your tie," you tell Bucky, when things are quieter.

"Just like prom!" Sam teases. "How cute! 28 and Tin-man goin' to prom!"

Bucky doesn't feel prompted to mention that he'd helped pick out your dress himself, through a slew of picturesque texts that had brightened a rather dull evening a few days earlier.

"How about you just pick up my tie yourself and foot me the bill?" he suggests, and you laugh. Because you both know that a suit and proper matching accessories are already pressed and waiting in his closet.

"I can do that," you agree.

"But if you get one of Stark's $150 ties, I'm gonna protest."

" _Alright_ , alright." And you pinch his ear in a show of irritation. Bucky grumbles, swatting your hand away.

"Don't make me change my mind," he warns.

"I make good profit on those ties," Tony adds, though no one asked.

"Y'all might have to practice being friends if you wanna convince 28's family you're dating," Sam teases, his eyes sparkling across the room.

"We can practice later," you say brusquely. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky twists in his seat on the ground to glance back at you with a grin. Your smile is beaming across your face, and he winks. "It's my pleasure, Agent."

Mission successful.

* * *

"So…" your voice tickles Bucky's ear. "What do you think? Are you glad you came?"

Audible to him over the wedding band, and the mingling guests and laughter in the garden glade, Bucky swivels his head to grin at you in the seat beside him. You're smiling, too - perfectly matched with the sunny afternoon, and the gorgeous dress (which he'd helped to pick out).

"Very glad," Bucky teases. "This free food is amazing."

You laugh, and while a few heads turn in the direction of your otherside-empty table, Bucky merely sips some more lemon water, feeling smug. Absently you fiddle with one of the polaroid cameras on each of the tables - quirky wedding thing, he's learned.

"Do you remember that mob boss we took down in Cairo last month?" Bucky asks abruptly.

"Er - yeah."

"Your uncle is scarier than that dude, I've decided."

The little snort from you is completely adorable. Or so Bucky thinks. "He's harmless," you promise. "It's just a front. Like you."

"Oh, please. I'm terrifying."

"Not like this, pal," you tease him, squeezing his metal hand under the table - which is currently sheathed in a flesh prosthetic. It had been decided to keep Bucky in disguise; while your parents know of his real identity (not your job, though), it seemed wise to keep things under wraps, for the most part. Bucky had even, finally, subjected himself to a haircut at your hands. It felt strange, to have his neck bare again. And you'd naturally teased him endlessly about being recognizable from history books.

He hadn't  _really_  wanted to scare off the guests. Because they're your family and friends - and he wants to count himself as part of that group. The lucky few privileged to know you... _really_  you...

It's the first time he's seen you without your holster. Or a knife. Or any protection, really.

 _"I'm not Agent 28 of SHIELD here. I'm just me,"_  you'd told him, that first night in a basement bedroom of your parents' house. Bucky had wondered.

_"You relax vigilance around your family?"_

_"Well - I've got tech set up for surveillance. But my identity is tight. They haven't been threatened."_

Bucky finds it all very impressive. Especially since, at the rehearsal dinner, when the teenage son of a family friend had tried to pinch one of your female cousins, you'd improvised extraordinarily well by stabbing a fork into his hand. The parents of the boy had been too upset at their son to be bothered by the stabbing, fortunately. Said teenaged son is now skulking near the sidelines with his hands bandaged, giving you a wide berth and the female cousin a wider one. It makes Bucky grin.

"What do you say to a dance?" he asks suddenly, nodding towards the constructed wooden floor, which is maybe half-full. You blink, a smile creeping up your face.

"Depends who's asking," you tease.

Bucky's lips twitch. " _I'm_  asking, you goof."

"Then I'd love to." A soft giggle, and his fingers tighten over yours as he stands, pulling you to your feet as well.

Bucky can't pretend he's totally comfortable dancing in this day and age - at least, upbeat dancing, but you're a good lead. He wonders if dancing is something you've always done well, or if it's a secret agent skill. But he doesn't care. He lets the beat of the music worm into his chest, eyes fastened to your vibrant smile as you laugh.

"You know," he says loudly, over the music. "If the band played some old tunes, we could jive pretty good, you and I."

"Jive?" you laugh. " _Wow_ , grandpa."

"Hey now. I used to be the toast of Brooklyn, babe. Girls would line up across the block to dance with me."

Your eyes are sparkling. "If you insist. Unless that's the dementia kicking in."

Bucky's eyes narrow - but he says no more. He's just trying not to step on anyone, honestly. There's a lot more bumping elbows than he remembers from his youth. Sweat is beginning to break out on his back and under his arms. Wrong time of year to be dancing in a suit outside.

"Thirsty?" he half-shouts to you, a few minutes later.

"Sure."

"I'll go."

"I'll come."

Your fingers find Bucky's, winding through as he takes you through the crowd. Towards the refreshment tables. But you're stopped by a long-lost aunt, and chortling to himself, Bucky extracts himself gracefully from the situation and continues on, winking at your 'rescue me!' plea sent in his direction.

Cute. You can face down a dozen men with guns and you're terrified of your own aunt. He can't wait to tease you about that.

Only a few seconds later your fingers curl around his upper arm, and Bucky grins down at you from where he's filling up a second cup with more lemon water. "Traitor," you mutter good-naturedly.

"Can't always be around to save you, babe," Bucky teases.

"But you were there right then." A roll of your eyes, and you reach over to pick up the first cup. Bringing it to your face, your nose scrunches, and you jerk backwards.

"What?" Bucky sniffs the second cup - and gags. "Spiked," he answers his own question.

"Gross. There are kids here, and they've been drinking this," you say, a frown creasing your brows.

"Wasn't spiked twenty minutes ago," Bucky says. You gnaw on your lip a little, swirling your cup with your eyes lowered. Then you glance up, a grin growing.

"Up for a mission?" you say lightly.

"With you? Always."

"Ok. Here's the plan…"

Hauling the spiked water back to the house, Bucky whistles a bit to himself. And in the kitchen, dumping it down the drain. Not a bad role in a mission. Better than planting surveillance bugs, or beating up a bunch of guards. Normal life is a bit different, isn't it?

But there are always variables.

When he returns not ten minutes later, you're leaning against the refreshment tables, arms crossed. When your eyes flicker to him, Bucky can see the smugness in your eyes - you've succeeded in your part - but there's a bit of annoyance in how your lips are pressed together.

"Sorry," he mumbles, hauling the heavy container back on the table. Maybe he should've made that part look harder - it's hard to judge his own strength compared to others.

"Thanks, Buck," you say. "What took so long?"

"Um - your dad cornered me."

Your brow lifts, and there's a twitch of amusement to your lips. "Oh? What'd he say?"

"Never you mind," Bucky says, pretending to be cross as he straightens his jacket. "How'd it go?"

"Great. Found out there's a liquor cabinet inside, found out who knows where the keys are. Talked to his mom. Guess he was more upset by my stabbing him with a fork than we realized. He snuck off while you and I were dancing - he was waiting for us to be distracted, I guess."

Bucky shakes his head, picking up a fresh cup. He's still thirsty, and you probably are, too.

"What do you call kids like that these days?" he asks, handing you the full cup, which you accept.

"Punks. But his parents are good - he's inside saying bye-bye to his playstation, or whatever it is."

"Yikes."

"Tell me about it."

The sourness of a teen in trouble diminishes quickly. The bride and groom have wandered off, sometime in the last excitement, and the late afternoon sun has descended down to the horizon. Already the sky is streaked with purple and pinks, and as if to celebrate the fall of evening, the band has slowed their music.

Words aren't needed. Lacing his fingers through yours, Bucky leads you back to the dance floor. To sway to the tempo, you pressed so close to him as your hand absently strokes the back of his neck - it's the most natural thing in the world. And there's no need to fake anything - your head rests on his shoulder, with a little smile on your lips. Bucky presses his cheek to your head.

"Thanks for coming with me," you say softly after a moment.

"Mmm. You're welcome, babe. This is nice, isn't it?" he hums into your hair. "Real life. Just being together."

You sigh in agreement. "It's really great."

Really great. Really, really. Bucky smiles to himself for a moment. Turning down the offer of your grandmother's wedding ring had been a hard sell - but your father had promised it would be around when he needed it.

Soon.


	11. Potato Potahto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession that Tony will never live down, a discovery that Bucky will never live down, and an incident that no one will ever let you forget.

Bucky can't stop replaying last night's encounter in his head.

It had been something magical. Skin and teeth and tongues and slick and hot and wet - he hadn't felt satisfied for hours, trying to wring  _just one more_  out of you - as you teased and tormented him, pretending like you were so cool and nonchalant but each time you climaxed it was  _more more don't stop Bucky_ , and he knows you're as screwed as he is.

The hazy look in your eyes, the dopey smile as you recline in a chair in the Tower common room, absently staring over Bucky's shoulder (so as not to be obvious), confirms it. His lips twist into a smirk - your eyes flit to his, and his grins broadens. He can hear the little stutter in your heart beat. It's cute.

"What do you mean the book isn't available online?" Stark's voice cuts through Bucky's daze, but he doesn't look away from you. Everyone else is so distracted with whatever the issue is, that he probably won't even be noticed.

Probably.

"It was published in freaking 1978. Go to the library if you're so desperate," Clint says.

"I don't have a library card," Tony says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'd let you borrow mine," Steve drawls from beside Bucky, glancing up from his phone. "But I think it expired."

The joke is appreciated - everyone chuckles along, and your smile brightens the room more than any sun. Bucky's staring again.

"Library cards can be renewed," you tease Steve. "Unless you have outstanding fees you're trying to avoid."

Steve grimaces. "I was never any good at paying fines."

"It's true," Bucky deadpans, glancing around the room but mostly speaking to you. "He'd pass by a bakery and use his fine money to buy a bun instead. The librarians stopped letting him borrow books - and he never even put on any muscle he wanted."

More laughter. Your eyes are sparkling, and a strange warmth steals over Bucky as he grins.

"Can't you just have some stooge downstairs get it for you and scan it into some system?" Clint asks. Tony brightens.

"Of course! I'll talk to Pepper right away." And Stark winds around a coffee table a brisk pace, eager on his journey, as a silent exchange is passed through the room. Bucky bites his lip to keep from laughing, and even Natasha snorts.

"Can't even go to a library," you sigh.

"Can't even go to a library," Sam repeats with a snicker.

Conversation turns to something Bucky doesn't find interesting. He goes back to watching you, when no one's looking, and even sending you a wink when he's feeling bold. Hearing the quickening of your heart, sensing your temperature rising - he likes that very much. Unconsciously (mostly) he drags his tongue across his bottom lip - drawing your immediate gaze, and your eyes widen ever-so-slightly. You uncross your legs, and cross them again, and Bucky's pants are getting tight. Had you done that on purpose?

"I'm back!" Stark announces, and Bucky's gaze is drawn away. "Okay folks, while that's getting taken care of - "

"By an intern," Nat mumbles.

" - let's get back to our previous topic. Mission. Toronto. Tomorrow. Got it?"

Startled, Bucky can't help blurting out, "What?" Now everyone's looking at him, and his face turns hot. He slouches, hoping to disguise the situation still going on in his pants.

"Come on, weren't you listening?" Clint complains.

"Nah, he was daydreaming," Sam teases. "That girl you were with last night got you all worked up, huh Barnes?"

"Uh - " Bucky blanks. Completely.

"What?" Natasha says, now sitting up straight, her eyes alight with interest.

"Can we get back to discussing the mission?" Tony tries, but Natasha cuts him off, her beady stare directly on Bucky and making him supremely uncomfortable. At least his boner's going down.

"Tell us more," Nat urges, a little smirk on her lips.

"I'll tell you," Sam says quickly. "Last night Steve and Barnes and I went out for burgers - fifteen minutes in, Barnes gets a text and goes all red in the face, and he high-tails it out of there. I don't even think he said goodbye!"

Steve comes to Bucky's rescue, thankfully - calm as ever. "Oh, sure he did. And it could've been anything, Sam. Put away the tinfoil hat."

"Nah, it was a girl," Clint says, leaning back in his chair. His hands are behind his head, and he's grinning. That doesn't bode well. "I saw a hickey on Bucky's shoulder in the gym shower this morning."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Sam exaults, as the room breaks into surprised chatter. Tony is pinching the bridge of his nose - Bucky wants to die - but otherwise this causes the stir Clint was undoubtedly intending. Even Steve is eyeing Bucky with interest, and Sam is bouncing on the edge of the couch. Only you are cool, as ever. Typical.

"Well?" Natasha demands. "Aren't you going to tell us?"

"Tell you what?" Bucky says coolly. "Seems like you've already decided what's going on in my life."

"Well, it's not like you tell us," you say with a grin. "Someone's got to fill in the cracks."

_Oh, he's gonna get you for that._

"Yeah, 28's right," Clint says over general snickering at Bucky's expense. "Tell us more about yourself and then we won't have to speculate."

Bucky glares around - at everyone in turn, and at you. You smirk in return, and his bad humor isn't quite as bad as it should be. "I don't like to be questioned," he says at last.

"Glad we can get that out of the way," Stark snaps, and Natasha sighs, sitting back down in defeat. Steve is shaking his head. "Alright, remember, folks? Mission tomorrow? Yeah? Anyone planning on showing up for that?"

"Yes, Tony, we're coming," you tell him, eyes dancing. "Except maybe Bucky, who apparently is too busy with his love life to bother with the rest of us."

Yep. You're in real trouble. And you know it, too - as everyone cackles at your joke, you shoot him a wink. Bucky narrows his eyes. He's already formulating a plan…

...Which he puts into practice sometime around midnight, to great success in the privacy of your bedroom, until you're finally dotted with enough love bites to satisfy him. For now.

"Serves you right," you say stoutly, tracing a finger over a particularly dark hickey above your breast, as Bucky watches with interest. He's sitting against the headboard, a little exhausted, and you're laying opposite to him with your feet propped up by his head. He can still see the sparkle in your eyes from this angle, at least, and he quirks a brow.

"Serves me right for what? Loving you so good?"

"For running out on Steve and Sam like that," you tease. "Not very assassin-y of you to be so obvious."

"Well if you hadn't sent that text - "

You cut him off with a laugh. "Don't even try it, Buck! I don't regret it one bit."

"You might regret it if someone hacks into my phone and sees it."

"Oh, please. No one's gonna hack into your phone."

Bucky lifts a brow. "And you know that, how?"

"Because they all think you'll snap their necks if they take that liberty with you." The smile curling your lips draws Bucky's attention, before his eyes flicker back up to meet your gaze.

"And you?" he asks.

"I'm not scared to take liberties." With that husky declaration, you swing your feet down and prop yourself onto all fours, drawing close to Bucky as he tries to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat. In the dim light, he can see how deep your eyes are, and how utterly enchanting.

"Yeah, you're probably gonna get away with it," Bucky admits softly, admiring how swollen your lips are.

"Mmm. I'm just glad that text was from me, and not another girl."

He chuckles, tangling his fingers in your hair as your lips draw close to his. He can feel your breath, and he sucks in the familiar taste as his blood starts to rush again. "You think I'd dare do that, babe? Everyone's scared of  _me_ \- but I think that if I crossed you my head would end up on a spike."

Your laugh warms his soul - it really does - and Bucky feels a growing warmth in his chest as you swing a leg over his hips, cupping his face in your hands as you brush your lips against his. And then pull away. Bucky groans, his hands on your waist trying to pull you back.

"If I put your head on a spike, I wouldn't be able to kiss you anymore," you murmur into his mouth.

"Er - yeah, that would be a shame." Bucky is rewarded with a longer kiss, but this time he pulls away curiously, meeting your hooded eyes. "If you're glad I'm not texting other girls, that means you're keeping me around, right?"

Your brow quirks. "Are you keeping me around?"

"Have I...indicated that I'm not?"

"No. Have I?"

"Guess not."

"Glad we could work this out," you say, laughing a little, and then there's more kissing and more loves bites - this time on Bucky, too. To his chagrin.

The next morning all evidence of lovemaking is hidden beneath layers of tac gear. You'd made extra sure of that, as you'd dressed that morning. It was worth teasing Bucky - but the hassle of concealing every last hickey is not ideal. Worth it, though.

Toronto's warehouse district is empty, peeling rust and gusting cold northern wind. Two-person teams are paired off by Tony and sent to each entrance. When he announces that Bucky and you are assigned to the the south exit, it takes some self-control not to cackle to yourself - but why not save it for later? Creeping along the south wall, you keep one eye on the door and one on Bucky slightly ahead of you, his rifle in his shoulder. And his bum.

A knock on the door yields nothing, and after some quick work with a gadget from his metal hand, Bucky ducks into the warehouse. You step in behind, fingers tracing the knife at your thigh.

It's a large, dark space - you blink for a moment, intent on any signs of activity. Bad guys with guns, traces of smuggled vibranium - that sort of thing. But nothing yet - only a few shafts of light through broken windows several feet up, and a distant red exit sign to the left.

Suddenly Bucky turns. "Two from the east," he says shortly.

"No guns yet, Barnes," comes Stark's voice over the coms. "We don't want them to know we're here. You too, Wilson."

"Aw, man," Sam complains.

"I got 'em," you tell Bucky. You can hear the footsteps now, too - and striding forward, you sling out your knife as two, darkly-clad men come into view from the shadows.

They have handguns - no qualms about being found out, clearly - but a quick kick dislodges the first guard's gun, and before the other can pull the trigger you grasp his wrist, jabbing down. The second gun drops to the concrete ground with a clatter, and you twist his arm back as he gives a howl. A shove from your knee in his back and he's limp on the ground - the first guard is approaching with a knife of his own now, eyes glittering eerily in the dim light. Swipe, dodge, duck, jab - you stab under his arm. Dodge, swerve, uppercut, stab - a punch to the face with your opposite hand and a second wound in his shoulder drops him, too.

The second man is moaning now. You strike a foot out, connecting your heavy boot with his face, and the nose cracks - but he doesn't move anymore. Mumbles from the first guard - an identical kick to the face, and then all is quiet again. Bending over, you wipe the blood of your knife onto one of their uniforms before sheathing it back into its place at your waist, and standing to return to Bucky.

"Wow," he says softly, his eyes wide. "I'd be lyin' if I didn't say that was pretty hot."

"Then don't lie," you tease. "A girl appreciates honesty."

Bucky chortles, reaching down to swipe one of the guards' guns. "Spoils?" he asks, quirking a grin at you.

"No, thanks. I'm packing enough."

The gun soars through a broken window, and the second follows.

"South exit is clear," you announce on the coms. "Any 20 on more perps?"

"Ground floor sweep is complete," Steve reports back. "Nothing. Upstairs?"

"We're on it," Bucky says, nodding towards you.

"Clint and I are scoping out the basement," Natasha reports. "There's some wiring down here Stark might like to see."

"Ooo, I do love wiring," Tony says.

You cast Bucky a wink - he smiles in return - and leading the way you tromp off towards where the guards had come from. There's a door there which leads to the upper level, but no further guards. Not very well stationed, this warehouse. Considering it's supposed to be hiding vibranium. At the top of the stairs, you shoulder through a rusty door.

No rooms, just an enormous space - dozens of windows line the walls of the warehouse, most broken. It's empty. Well - some overturned furniture, outdated tech and servers, some chairs and a mini fridge.

"Bust," Bucky mutters. "Unless they can make stolen goods invisible."

"Or they got it out before we got here," you suggest.

"Yours seems more likely, I'll admit." He slants a smile towards you, and you chortle.

"I'm picking up something on their com station," Natasha says suddenly. "Be careful, you guys."

"How very suspicious," Tony says. "How about we leave?"

"Good idea."

"We'll be out in a minute," you say, heading towards where most of the furniture is toppled over. Some of the tech is still blinking, and Bucky pushes some random buttons on a router with a little frown on his face. You nudge aside some magazines with the toe of your boot, but...it all looks harmless. Which makes it both more and less suspicious.

"The guards are saying something about a bomb," Natasha's voice cuts in, jerking your head up in surprise. She sounds like she's out of breath - leaving the building, probably. Smart. "28? Can you get to it?"

"I could, if I knew where it was," you say, a little crossly. "But there's - " Your eyes, drifting forward, fall on a little sliver visible behind the fridge. "Oh…" you breathe out, and step forward to fall to your knees. "Those idiots. They made a bomb out of a potato."

"A what?" Sam says, aghast.

"A potato," Steve clarifies.

"Oh, I used to make those when I was a kid," Tony remarks. "They're not hard to disarm, 28. You got this. I mean, as our resident bomb expert…" You roll your eyes to yourself as Bucky crouches beside you, one hand still on his gun.

"You got this?" he asks in a murmur. Much more polite than the others, but his expression is definitely more alert now, as if to prepare for a blast.

"It's a potato bomb," you tell him dryly. "I've disarmed better."

There are several wires poking through the potato, and you study it carefully - some appear to be attached to the battery flickering sparks and a countdown, and some seem to just be tangled. Clumsy, inelegant work. You could do better with your eyes closed. If you ever cared to make a crummy potato bomb. But you have standards.

Pulling out a pair of wire cutters from your boot (always handy to have on hand - er, foot), you wet your lips as you give the tangled wires another once-over. And choose a yellow one to snip.

Nothing happens.

"Can we just take it off the battery?" Bucky asks in a hushed voice.

"Sure, if you want it to go boom in our faces. Craving mashed potatoes, are ya?"

"Er - no."

This time - a blue wire gets snipped. The countdown pauses - and you start to give a sigh of relief before it starts again, double-time.

"Oops," you say.

"Is everyone out?" Bucky asks briskly into his com.

"We're all on the jet except you two hooligans," Clint says. "Can't you just leave and let the bomb go?"

"There could be people near enough to be affected," you snap back.

"Then hurry," Stark says.

"Then stop talking," you retort.

Ah, blessed silence again. Bucky shifts his weight awkwardly, and you can feel the burn of his eyes on your face.

"Forty seconds," he says.

"I know!" Impulsively you snip another wire - wrong move. This time the clock changes to 00:00, and the beeping turns furious. Bucky swears.

"Aw, come on!" you shout, as sparks begin to fly. Before you can even kick the dumb potato in frustration (not that it will help), Bucky has stood, and grasping you around the waist starts to pull you away as the battery is engulfed in flames, and a woosh of heat sucks the air from your lungs. There's chattering in your ear from the coms, but the roar of violent fire ripping through the empty room makes your ears thud - a few long, striding steps from Bucky, and you cling to his shoulders, burying your face in his neck for protection from the heat - and then a distant  _crash!_

The blessed relief of cooler air - and  _nothing else._ You're falling - your eyes pop back open, to see above an inferno busting through the windows with shards of glass spilling everywhere - and drifting further away. Suddenly there's a thud, an  _oof_  from Bucky, and you're rolling, still tight in his embrace, across the parking lot.

Then everything is still.

"Ow," you whimper. Some residual thrumming in your ears begins to fade, and your head lolls.

"Ow?" comes Bucky's cross voice. "Excuse me. Who landed with all your weight on their arm, again? Was it you? Because I'm pretty sure that was me."

Peeking open an eye, you glare at him - he's about five feet away on the concrete, wincing as he props himself on his flesh arm. The metal appendage opposite - ah, doesn't look so good. The bicep is caved in from the impact, and the wrist and fingers are all twisted in unnatural shapes and directions.

"I think you're gonna need a cast," you murmur.

"Ha, ha." But the glare Bucky gives you isn't angry - it's long-suffering, a tad affectionate, and just plain weary.

"You guys got out," comes Steve's voice, too loud in your ear. You rip out your com, hoisting yourself into a sitting position to take deep breaths of clean air. The warehouse is still on fire, through not as violently as before. Metal poles and rafters cave in, and ash spills into the air. You sigh.

"I'm never gonna live this down."

"Probably not," Bucky agrees.

There are running footsteps, and you peer over your shoulder to see Nat and Steve, slightly panicked, slightly relieved.

"Thought you two were goners," Steve says raggedly. "Maybe you could report next time if you need help? Someone to catch you if you're falling? Sam would've done it."

"Sam would have complained about it, but yes," Natasha says. "Next time we should split up Impulsive One and No-Self-Preservation Two."

"Aw, that's cute, Nat," you say, taking her hand to stand. "You have nicknames for us. Am I Impulsive One?"

"No, that's Barnes."

Your lips twitch with laughter. "Oh. I see." Glancing over at Bucky, you memorize the sight of his raised eyebrows, the overall offence as he glares at Natasha. But then his eyes meet yours, and you wink. "Well, come on then, Impulsive One," you tease him. "We'd better get cleaned up."


	12. The Heart is a Muscle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission gets a little too dangerous, but the fallout is worse.

Bucky stomps onto the Quinjet, unbuckling the vest around his chest to throw into a locker - it bounces off the metal grating and falls to the floor. He ignores it. Stomping up to the pilot's deck, his jaw clenches as he notices Steve and Clint looking pointedly away from him as they strap on their seat belts. Bucky's face is red hot and tingling, and he slumps into a seat with a suppressed growl rumbling in his chest.

"Er, let's head home," Steve says awkwardly.

"Yeah, home. Home sounds great." Clint fumbles with some buttons. Their voices quiet as they communicate amongst themselves to get the jet off the ground. Gangway raised, engines turned on.

Bucky simmers.

The door from the main cabin slides open with a near-silent  _whoosh_. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, but he doesn't look back.

"Sergeant," comes your icy voice.

"Agent," he retorts.

"Could I have a moment of your time?"

Bucky bites his tongue. He can see Steve's head tilt in front of him, waiting for the response even though it's not meant for him. Bucky doesn't really have a choice now. He knows it.  _You_  know it.

Lazily he stands. "Of course," Bucky drawls, keeping his chin up as he dares to meet your eyes. Your expression glitters darkly. You haven't removed your gear; with arms crossed in front of your chest, you only regard him coolly for a moment before turning on your heel to leave. Bucky follows doggedly behind, and the door whooses shut again behind him.

Is it soundproof? He kind of hopes so.

You don't stop until you're at the back of the jet. Without warning you spin around, the full force of your emotion nearly stopping Bucky in his tracks.

"What was that?" you demand, eyes spitting sparks.

He glares right back. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play stupid, Barnes. It's not your style." Your voice snaps at him, drags up his rage to the battlefield.

"You wanna know what that was?" Bucky asks roughly, staring you down as he takes a menacing step forwards. You don't move an inch, glower deepening. "That was  _saving the mission_."

"That was disobeying Fury's orders."

"That was saving your life!"

You give a disbelieving snort. "Don't exaggerate. We would have still gotten out just fine - "

"Missing limbs? Shot through? Dead?"

" -  _just fine_." Your brows are pinched together in a scowling frown. "We've gotten out of tougher situations, Barnes. Steve, Clint, even me - you came today as backup. Not as an instigator. And now SHIELD has to deal with your fallout - "

"Should I regret what I did?" Bucky cuts in, the metal plates of his hand grating shrilly as he balls his fingers. "Because I don't. Even if you wish I hadn't, even if you'd rather be taken home on a stretcher than standing up just fine, as you  _clearly_ are, thanks to  _me_ \- "

"Oh,  _please_. Don't flatter yourself. It was under control."

Bucky scoffs. "You were being held at gunpoint."

"Like I've never been there before!" Voice raising dangerously, you throw your hands angrily in the air, the sudden action startling Bucky. "I was perfectly capable of saving my own backside before you ever came along. Just because we're -  _we_  - it doesn't mean you always have to step in! Bucky, this is my  _job_ ; I know what I'm doing, and I accept any consequences - "

"You think I did what I did for  _you_?" Bucky stares for a moment, and then starts to laugh maniacally. Angrily you snap your lips shut, glaring full force. "Like I would," he bites back suddenly. "Yeah, sorry I saved your life. Sorry I saw the situation going downhill and stepped in. I obviously forgot that pride is worth dying for. At least for you."

"Give me a break," you snap.

"You want a break? I can give you a break."

You blink up at him, evidently stunned into silence, and Bucky immediately regrets his words. The anger is fading from your expression, into something even more horrifying - horrifyingly desolate - and with a grunt he runs his fingers through his grimy hair.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he grumbles. "I shouldn't have said that."

The jet cabin is so quiet that he could hear Steve and Clint's murmurs to each other on the flight deck. Then you blink again, and a shaky sigh leaves your lips.

"I'm not ungrateful, Bucky. I just…" you gnaw on your lip a moment, shifting your weight on your feet, clearly uncomfortable. "It's just...hard."

"Hard," Bucky repeats.

"Sometimes...the lines between personal and professional get blurred."

"Like when we made out in that Hydra base?"

A trembling laugh. "Yeah. Like that."

Bucky's lips twitch, wanting to smile. "So, professionally you're ok with what I did, but personally I offended you?"

Your teeth are gnawing into your bottom lip. "Um - sure."

"Right."

"You know, I worked alone for a long time," you say, voice quiet now. "Having a team is new to me. Having  _you_. Maybe I don't need a team or you...but I want you. I do, Bucky. I sleep better knowing you have my back. In every way. And I didn't mean to get angry, I just…" your voice trails off. "I…"

"It's okay," Bucky interrupts, and tentatively he reaches out to clasp your hands, hanging at your sides, in his. Immediately a little smile lifts your lips. The scarce distance between your bodies is no longer threatening; but consoling. He lets loose a deep breath. "We all have our bad days, babe. I know I'm still the hottest thing you've ever seen, even when you're angry."

You blink, and then give a startled laugh. "Don't test me," you tease.

"I don't have to test what I already know," he snarks back, and grins at your eye roll. "Do you think Steve and Clint heard us?" Bucky adds, wondering.

"Um - Steve, probably. Clint takes his hearing aids out when he's uncomfortable."

Bucky chortles. "True. He's very lucky that way."

"Do you…" you start to say, and then pause. Your eyes are shining as you quirk a brow up at Bucky. "Do you think they still think we're fighting?"

He quirks a brow. "...Should they?"

"I'll be reporting this to your superiors!" you half-shout, startling Bucky slightly. But the little smile on your lips proves you don't mean it. Curiously he watches the expression on your face as you wink.

"Well maybe I'll report  _you_ ," he says loudly back, aware of your fingers curling around his wrist. You start to tug him back towards the rear of the jet.

"Fury trusts me a lot more than you!" you call, and then whisper for his benefit, "But not by much."

Holding back a laugh, Bucky retorts at full volume as you barge backwards through the nearest bathroom door, "That's gonna be his downfall!"

The door shuts, and in a breathless whisper he adds, "Not really. Fury's lucky to have you."

"I'm glad you think that," you murmur, reaching around him to lock the door.

" _I'_ m lucky to have you, too."

You wince. "After I just railed at you?"

"I know you only did it because you love me."

Laughing, you wind your arms around Bucky's neck, and he doesn't waste time unbuckling the back of your tac vest. The bathroom is only about three feet long and two feet wide; his back is pressed into the door as his elbows knock against the opposite wall. But it's only the shining light in your eyes he sees; drowning in the depths before he lowers his head to kiss you - devouring for all he's worth as you kiss him just as fiercely in return; you bite his lip, teeth clatter together. It's all desperation. Arousal rips through his veins faster than anger ever had.

The vest falls to the floor, but there's no time to go much further. Urgently Bucky wrenches open the buckle on your pants, unzipping them to tip his fingers inside. A rough moan rips from your throat, which he swallows as he tastes your mouth with his eager tongue.

"Bucky," you whine, tugging at his hair as he lowers his head to nip at the sensitive skin of your neck.

"We've done it worse places," he reminds you.

"Oh, I don't care - why are your pants still on?"

"Because you haven't taken them off yet, babe."

"Oops."

Your hands stray down to his chest, and Bucky starts as you push him back against the wall, a wild smile on your face. Keeping your gaze on him, you pull off his belt and push down his trousers as he swallows thickly.

"I get a little scared when you look at me like that," he says hoarsely.

"Oh, please," you coo. "When has it ever turned out badly for you?"

"...Good point."

You tilt your chin upwards, eyes hooded as Bucky wets his lips. His throat is dry. "Aren't you gonna make love to me?" you whisper, a trace of taunting coloring your words.

"You haven't said please," Bucky tries to tease back, even though his throat is tight.

" _Please_ , Bucky. I need it. I need you."

"You need me?"

"I  _want_  you."

His lips twist in a crooked grin as he traces the curve of your cheek with his flesh thumb. "That can be arranged."

"Then arrange it."

Bucky isn't one to say no. Especially to you. His hands roam south, until his fingers are digging into your hips. Abruptly he spins you around, and you catch yourself on the edge of the sink as he bends over your arched back, nibbling on your ear as he listens to the soft whimper from your lips.

"Get on with it," you breathe, and with a groan he pushes down your pants and aligns his hips to yours. Lacing his metal fingers over yours on the sink, Bucky takes a steadying breath before thrusting in.

The moan that rips from you echoes in the tinny bathroom.

"Shh." Bucky nuzzles into your neck, his breathing labored as he keeps control of himself.. "As much as I know you want to let everyone know how good I am, you gotta keep quiet. Stark will have our hides if he finds out we've been dirtying his equipment."

Your husky laugh is, thankfully, quiet. After that, the only sounds are ragged breathing, and the vibrations of louder moans stay in your throat. Bucky's fingers squeeze over yours, his opposite hand digging into your waist as you quiver around him.

Suddenly, footsteps. Bucky's head snaps up as you give a shuddering gasp. Damn, he was right there with you - and right on queue, he feels your pulsating climax around him, and he stutters awkwardly, finishing straight behind.

Shoot. They're coming closer. Instinctively he clamps a hand over your mouth, cutting off the sound of your frenetic breathing. Bucky holds his breath.

The door to the other bathroom is opened. And closed.

Lowering his head to your ear, Bucky whispers, "That was Clint."

"Good," you murmur between his fingers. "If it was Steve - "

"We'd be caught," he finishes. A tense, horrifying moment - and then you start to giggle, and unable to stop himself, Bucky joins in. Very quietly. And because he can't really resist, and he doesn't want to - he trails the tip of his nose against the back of your neck up to your hairline, kissing your skin softly.

"I'm sorry," you say mournfully after a moment. "I really am."

"For?"

"Being angry at you before."

"It's okay. I was mad too."

"Do you think…do you think it's worse? Because we're hiding this?"

The softly spoken question gives Bucky pause. Awkwardly he pulls out, keeping hold of your hand as you straighten stiffly. Clean up is efficiently done, and as he's belting his pants again, he frowns a little at the contemplative expression on your face.

"No," he says firmly. "I think...I think that if we weren't hiding it, we'd have a whole slew of new problems."

You giggle quietly. "That's probably true." Bending over to pick up your discarded tac vest, you glance up at Bucky with your eyes sparkling. The sight makes his heart stutter a little, and he grins as he wraps an arm around your waist for a final, lingering kiss.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you too. Shall we go and tell Steve we worked things out?"

"Maybe leave out the sex bit, but yeah."

With a final study of your smile, burning it in his memory, Bucky slowly unlocks the door to peek his head out. The opposite bathroom is engaged, and silent. He tiptoes out, leading you by the hand. And then he remembers, and drops it.

So maybe telling everyone would have some advantages.


	13. Good Morning, Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're woken up, against your will - mostly.

Something is tickling your leg.

Burying your face deeper into your pillow, you groan as the bright sunlight of morning registers beyond your eyelids - and the tickles turn into something more comprehensive: kisses.

"Bucky…" you mutter. "How'd you get in here?"

His low, huffing chuckle expels hot breath on the back of your thigh. "Through the window, babe. Didn't you hear me?"

"Uh - no."

"Ooh, you must have been sleeping hard."

"I  _know_." With that whine, your face splits into an enormous yawn, and your back arches into a stretch as tingling shoots through your limbs. You bump into something hard with your behind - found him.

"Last night was so good," Bucky's low rumble sends shivers up your spine, as his warm lips return to your skin; this time, above the waistband of your shorts as his cool metal hand pushes the fabric of your shirt away. "I couldn't wait for more."

"Ugh -  _Bucky…_ "

"Yeah babe?" His tone is utterly unrepentant. Of course. It's not exactly easy to complain about being woken up, when the waker is so irresistible. You sigh.

"You're gonna to do this to me on my day off? Really?"

"Well, I was on the neighborhood." A little, nipping nibble at the flesh of your waist - you shiver.

"You mean, you left the Tower this morning to come see me?"

"Ouch! You really think I'd be so devious? You cut me to the core." With that, Bucky's hands replace his mouth at your waist, and suddenly his hot breath is on your neck. Suppressing a smile, you bury your face further into your pillow, determinedly ignoring him. His knees are between yours.

"You deserve it." Your voice is muffled, but he understands you perfectly - and laughs.

"I promised Steve I'd go running with him this morning, but I lost him halfway through Central Park." Bucky nips at your ear - since your lips are unavailable. "And...I decided I would rather be here than pretending to enjoy a run. It's cold outside this morning!"

"Oh,  _please_ , the cold doesn't bother you."

His nose trails across your hairline, and goosebumps follow his touch - biting your lip where he can't see, your mind is getting distinctly hazy.

"I wanted to be here," Bucky murmurs, his voice deep and husky in your ear. "With my head buried between your legs, listening to you moan my name. Couldn't concentrate on a run. Wanted you instead."

"Umm…" Again your back arches, this time more for pleasure, and your back meets his rock-hard chest. "Ugh, Bucky. You're such a dirty old man."

His laugh sends vibrations through you. "Ask me if I feel bad about it."

You can pretty accurately guess at his answer, but decided to humor him. "Do you feel bad about it, Bucky? Being greedy and waking up your girl from her perfectly peaceful sleep?"

"No."

"'Course not," you mumble. But Bucky is apparently done talking - lifting himself slightly off you, he trails back down to your shorts, which are tugged off without any more teasing. Cool air hits your bare skin, and you moan a little - but quicky Bucky's warmth is back on you, his teeth making marks in the flesh of your buttocks as he hooks his hands beneath your thighs.

"Good morning," you sigh, as bursts of pleasure start in your center and turn your limbs into jelly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing...nothing…"

His mouth is hot. The last, distant thought of sleeping in flies in the window (probably the same window Bucky came in through), and your toes curl as you arch yourself into him.

"Not so tired after all, huh babe?" His voice is low, ragged.

"And what would Steve say if he knew you abandoned your run for this?" you tease.

"He'd be jealous. And he should be." A kiss to the inside of your thigh, and his voice lowers even more, sweet and thick and golden as honey. "I'm so lucky to have a girl as sweet as you."

Another moan falls from your lips, as his return to their previous task. Your fingers are clenching around the sheets, sweat prickling your back beneath your shirt.

"Bucky…"

" _Uhh…_  yeah babe?"

"I need you. Please."

"Got you all riled up?"

"Yes, and you know it," you say crossly, peeking back over your shoulder to see him properly for the first time - hair falling out of a bun, a plain shirt and gym shorts, with his sneakers hanging off the end of the bed. Good. He knows better than to bring dirty shoes into your bed - there's a reason you keep a knife within arms' reach. Bucky is grinning ear to ear, clearly full of amusement despite the dark glitter of his eyes. He wasn't lying about being aroused.

"You want me, babe?" he teases, his voice low as his hands make languid strokes on your bare legs, making them tremble.

"Yes! Get on with it."

"You  _really_  want me? How bad, huh?"

Oh, he is so  _insufferably smug_  this morning. Scowling, you prop yourself on an elbow to scowl back at him properly. "So help me Bucky, if you leave me hanging like this I'm gonna - " and you break off into a long, detailed rant of what, exactly you'll do to him as Bucky's smile droops and his eyes widen as he stares at you.

" - and  _then_  maybe, just maybe, I'll let you finish, but you'd better be keeping up a string of apologies the entire time, mister."

Bucky's mouth falls open, and closes, and opens again as your words register with him. Good. You've gotten him back. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you let him suffer a moment more before laughing. He startles back.

"But you still have time make amends," you coo. His grin returns at once, and as he pushes down his shorts with one hand you sigh a little to yourself, resting your head back on your pillow in contentment. Moans mingle as he pushes into you, more than ready - and then his lips are on your neck again - not gentle this time, but sucking and bruising. His arms are by your sides, trapping you in. A willing prisoner.

"So much better than a run," Bucky grunts into your ear, and you giggle.

"It had better be," you snark back, but then your eyes roll back in your head, and it becomes more and more difficult to formulate words...or thoughts...or to think of anything except the roll of Bucky's hips into yours, the sparks and shoots of pleasure through your core, and his raspy breath in your ear.

The pulsing climax overtakes you a split-second before Bucky's movements turn jerky with a strangled groan from him. Heart racing, you unclench your fingers as he peppers scruffy kisses down your spine.

"There," you sigh, full of languid contentment. "You got your heart rate back up, yeah? Practically the same as a run."

Bucky laughs, long and low. "And now look - you've had your morning workout too, yeah? You should be thanking me, babe."

"Maybe when you get off me. I'm getting stiff."

Immediately he obliges, his large hands scooping you up by your waist to flip you around. The room is much brighter when your head isn't in a pillow - and you beam up at Bucky, hovering over you with a wonderful smile of his own.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, and ducks his head to plant a kiss on your lips. Which turns into two. Then three. Then his tongue is on your lips, and with a moan you open up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him close.

"Shoot," Bucky says suddenly, pulling away. "I'm supposed to meet Steve at the bridge, ah - " He lifts his watch to check the time, then grimaces. "In six minutes."

"Looks like you've got a way to go." You trace the outlines of his biceps, flesh and metal, with your fingertips. Now that you're awake, it's hard to be willing to let Bucky go - no matter what plans he made with Steve. With a rueful smile he extracts himself from you, standing at the side of the bed to pull back up his shorts. You watch from hooded eyes, biting your lip.

"Well, it was a good way to start my day off," you tease lightly, stretching your arms above your head for a yawn. "Ah! Wanna meet me for breakfast?"

Bucky's eyes glint with mischief. "Already had it, babe."

"Well,  _I_  haven't. And it may be awhile before I can return the favor…"

A low noise strangles in Bucky's throat, fingers freezing as he ties the strings of his shorts.

"Bagels?" you suggest with a grin.

He laughs, filling your bedroom with warmth and happiness. "Name the shop, babe, and I'll bump into you there."


	14. DRABBLES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are some drabble requests for 28 x Bucky I've gotten on Tumblr this week. Enjoy!

The metal bar door closes with a clang, and the guard locks it as Sam lets loose an exaggerated sigh, slumping against the wall, and you and Bucky exchange an amused glance. The guard walks away, keys jingling, and Bucky rests his arms on the bar of the jail cell, gazing out into the concrete hall.

"That could've gone better," Bucky muses.

"Could've," you agree, admiring the shape of his bum in his dark jeans for only a scant second so Sam doesn't notice. "I swear, I was a half an inch away from palming the target's phone."

"Then next time, let's do it dancing instead of brawling," Sam comments.

"Well, I didn't start the brawl," you point out. "I was just trying to take advantage, since you two were too busy throwing hands to help a girl out."

"Hey now," Bucky drawls, glancing back at you. Crossing your arms, you quirk a brow. "If the buttons hadn't showed Sammy and I would've cleared out the brawl in two minutes flat. Especially if Clint had stayed instead of running off to the powder room."

"Yes, I know how good you are at ending brawls," you tease. "And starting them."

"And now our target's gone, and we have to come up with a new plan," Sam sighs, rubbing his eyes. The light above is very, very bright for a city police station.

"Jail can't stop me," you say lightly, and wander over to where Bucky's slouched to gaze out at the hall, too. There are a few other cells, and you smile. "They took the target to a different precinct. The one where he buys off the head detective. Think they'll keep him overnight, just for show?"

Bucky slants a grin at you, his eyes sparkling. "You might be onto something there, ba - Agent."

"So what, we break out of this jail and break into another jail to swipe some stuff from a guy who's got half the officers on his payroll?" Sam gripes.

You shrug. "They're city jails, Sam. We've done worse."

"They took my pocket knife - " Sam tries to remind you, but in tandem you and Bucky glance back over to stare at him in amusement, and he stops talking as he frowns. "How many weapons you two got left?" he asks roughly. Bucky's eyes flicker to you, and you grin.

"Boot knife."

"Two tear bombs."

"Push dagger."

"Taser."

"Garrote."

"Three throwing stars."

"My Beretta Pico."

"Aww - I have one of those too - "

But Sam holds up a hand. "You two," he says angrily. "Are absurd."

"We're on a mission, Sammy," you remind him with a laugh. "What do you expect? When things get hot we can't always find a fork to start stabbing eyeballs."

Sam's lips press together - he evidently doesn't like being reminded. As you open your mouth to tease him further, the jingling keys comes within earshot again, and soon the guard is approaching. But not alone.

"Hullo, Barton," Bucky says dryly. "Come to join us?"

"More importantly," you say, eyes narrowing. "Where are your pants?"

"It's a long story," Clint says, as the guard sticks a key in to unlock the cell. "How about, ' _Thanks Clint, for getting us out,_ ' or ' _Wow Clint, we're so glad to see you in one piece after everything in the bar went to hell and nearly everyone got dragged into cop cars, how on earth did you get out?'_ "

The door slides open, and Sam pushes past Bucky to leave first. Still hasn't forgiven the fork/eyeball comment, then. You grin, and Bucky winks as he lets you pass.

"Tell us as you're driving us home," you say, for the benefit of the guard, because there won't be any going home for a few hours yet.

* * *

A distant  _tap tap_  draws Bucky's attention. Draping the damp towel over his shoulder, he peeks out of the bathroom and glances around his bedroom - nothing. Then another  _tap tap_ , and he blinks at the dark window to see -

Oh, no.  _You_.

Heart hammering with something between panic and exasperated affection, Bucky hurries over to unlatch the window, giving you the most severe stare he can imagine.

"Hello," you say lightly, lips curled in a very lovely smile. It distracts him for a moment, before he remembers that you're suspended 46 floors above busy New York City streets. The equipment looks alright, as he gives it a once over, and you're clearly suppressing laughter. That's good.

"I don't want to swear," he starts, lifting a brow. "But, what. The. Frick."

"Testing out some new rappelling equipment," you explain.

"At night?"

"Already completed the daytime tests."

It's tough not to roll his eyes. Bucky reaches out to test some of the latches around your torso and legs with a tug or two. Not bad. Then, hooking a finger in the strap across your chest, he drags you closer to the window, tilting up his face for a kiss. You giggle, and oblige.

"I already reported to Tony," you say, voice a little breathless. "Wanna invite me in, soldier?"

"Let me guess," Bucky drawls, admiring the shine of your eyes, reflecting a thousand stars. "You volunteered to do this test, even though there are about a dozen interns who could've done it, because you wanted to spring an invitation into my bed."

"Well, when you put it that way - "

Bucky laughs, and grabs you by the waist to pull you inside all the way.

* * *

Bucky sighs, resting his head in his heads as he rubs his temples with his fingertips. It's been hours, but the obstacles in front are seeming more and more unsurmountable by the minute. It had been rigged. He knows it.

"Come on, one more roll," you urge him, and Sam loudly sips the last of his drink from a straw. Bucky lifts his head, and sighs.

"Just some bad news; we might die," Bucky says, swiping up the dice from the center of the table. One beady stare for Sam. If it hadn't been for your hand resting on his leg beneath the table he probably would have throttled Sam, the Gamemaster, a long, long time ago.

"Well, what else is new?" you point out with a cheeky grin, and some of the angry pressure in Bucky's chest lessens as he gazes into your eyes. "It's either here and now or from a suicide bomber on a subway. Come on."

"Fine." Bucky drags his eyes away from you and back over to the smirking Sam. "I'm using my dexterity to take down the guards in front of the nuclear bomb. Have I got any darts left? I'll throw those, too."

"Two darts," Sam says.

"Fine." The dice clatter on the table. Fifteen. Bucky sucks in his breath, a last flash of hope making his heart skip a beat - as your fingers tighten on his knee. Sam nods.

"Not bad. Only one dart hit a mark, but you got five of the seven guards altogether."

"The last two are the ones I've entrapped with my charisma by the exit, right?" you ask.

"Yep."

"Yes!" Bucky high-fives you, as you laugh.

"Bomb's still ticking," Sam says by way of reminder.

"Can I crack the last guards' head together and run to help Bucky?"

"Roll for it."

You do - and Bucky can't help letting out a sigh of relief. Sixteen. Finally - the dice are cooperating. The threats he's been giving them all night are finally paying off.

"Sixty seconds left before boom…" Sam warns.

"Okay, okay," Bucky thinks fast. "I cut some wires." He rolls. A four.

"Nope," Sam says.

"I unplug it," you say, and roll. A ten. Sam shrugs.

"Didn't work. But you found laying around a key to open up a panel on the bomb…it opens to reveal a numbered keypad."

"1234," Bucky blurts, and rolls. A one. A frigging one.

"Sorry," Sam says, but he's smiling - he's clearly not smiling at all. "Fifteen seconds left."

"6789," you try - but nope. A five.

"4321."

"9876!"

"Nope, and - nope." Sam is not even bothering to hide his glee at two more failed rolls. "And…boom."

"Oh, come on!" Bucky runs his fingers through his hair as you slouch back in your chair, arms crossed as you glare at Sam.

"Mission failed," Sam says smugly.

"This is rigged," Bucky snaps.

"I can do many things, my friend. But loading dice is not one of them."

"We can try again tomorrow," you say, patting Bucky's shoulder. "For now, I think short-sheeting Sam's bed will suffice."

"Nice try,  _agents_ ," Sam cackles, and stands from the table with a yawn and a stretch. "I'm going to bed right now. It's a good thing you two aren't this hopeless out in the field!" And still laughing, Sam leaves Bucky and you with the clean up. Bucky still glowers.

"I have a better idea," you say, more softly now as your fingers wind into Bucky's hair - it's late, and no one else is around. The shivers the simple touch sends up his spine nearly makes him moan aloud, and his voice is rough as he replies,

"Uh - huh?"

"Let's go buy some donuts and fill them with mayonnaise."

Bucky laughs. "Done deal, babe. I'll go get our jackets."

* * *

It's nice to not be front and center on a mission for once. Sprawled out in the cockpit of the Quinjet with Bucky, watching feeds from body cams as the rest of the team struggles to infiltrate a high-end art auction - it has all the promise of an excellent evening in. You'd even found some popcorn - a bowl is cradled between the two pilot chairs. Bucky's boots are propped up on the console, but that only adds to the hilarity. Stark's gonna be furious.

"Take the next left, Barton," you say through a mouthful of popcorn. "Guard's down the northwest stairwell."

Clint's cam feed changes abruptly.

"Camera on your left, Steve," Bucky says. "Hug the wall if you don't wanna be seen." Bucky glances over at you, and you wink. An excellent night off. He reaches over for more popcorn.

"Turn your head Nat - a guy at your two o'clock is taking a picture and he's got your profile."

Natasha ducks her head, and a flash goes off on her camera feed, making it static.

"You shouldn't take pictures of art," Bucky comments. "The painting, I mean - it's an antique. Bad manners, dude."

"Didn't know you were an art expert," you say, glancing over at him with a wink.

"I've known Steve practically all my life. I know way more about art than I ever wanted," Bucky says, his tone annoyed but a fond little smile on his face, just for you.

"Hey - " Steve protests.

"Why do I feel like we're being made fun of?" Sam asks crossly. He's heading down a marble staircase to the main party.

"Because you are," you tease him. "Usually Barnes and I are the ones going in and you guys are giving us a hard time. Let us enjoy it."

Sam harrumphs, and Clint groans.

"If Barnes is an art expert, maybe he should be the one down here," Stark says snidely.

"There's Hydra agents crawling everywhere. I'd be recognized."

"Then maybe you should've stayed home instead of snarking at us - " Sam grumbles.

"Aw, come on - then who would be keeping me company?" you say lightly. Bucky laughs, before disguising it to a cough, and his hand creeps over to snag his index finger beneath your thigh holster and give a teasing tug. It's an electric touch. His eyes are glittering in the dim lights of the Quinjet, which is parked above the building the party is being held in - through the front windows, New York City lights twinkle. It's more romantic than the usual stakeout, that's for sure. Kissing later, perhaps?

"You in, Sam?" Stark asks.

"He's in," you say on Sam's behalf, since Sam can't speak very well surrounded by people. He's weaving around waiters carrying trays of champagne. One beady stare is being directed towards him, and quickly you add, "Your seven o'clock is giving you a once over, Sammy. Look natural."

A low grumble from Sam. Then he's nearing Natasha, who turns to him with a beaming smile. Look natural - but Natasha knows what she's doing - she looks an arm around Sam's waist, and suddenly the camera feeds are getting very close and fuzzy.

You gasp aloud, and Bucky pretends to gag.

"I didn't say  _kiss_ her!" you laugh. "Gee whiz, Sammy!"

"Kill me!" Bucky moans. "Kill me in the eyes!"

"Drama queen," Stark mutters.

"Glad I didn't have to see that close-up," Clint says, ducking into a supply room.

"Can we get back to the mission?" Steve snaps.

"I dunno, Steve," you sigh. "I did not sign up to watch ya'll swap spit. I'm rethinking this."

"Did Wilson lose his bogey?" Natasha asks under her breath, her body cam trained on an abstract painting.

"Yep," you confirm. "So no more kissing, kids."

"Kissing always works. You know how it goes, 28."

"Yeah, yeah; I know."

You can feel Bucky's suspicious gaze on your face, and you shovel in more popcorn to keep from grinning. "So. Anyone have eyes on that shooter yet?"

* * *

The target is shivering in the cold metal chair, hands secured to the armrests with duct tape. A messy job, but efficient. His eyes are wild with fear as he stares at Bucky standing tall above him. Bucky can be intimidating, when he wants to be. You suppose. You smile to yourself, and continue sharpening a knife as you lean against the wall. The targets eyes flicker to you, but you merely lift an eyebrow.

"What is this, good cop bad cop?" The target asks, his voice shaky.

"Depends," Bucky drawls. "Do you think I'm the good cop or the bad cop?"

 _Screech, screech_  goes the knife. The target looks at you again. Then back to Bucky. "Good cop?" he guesses. You don't bother hiding your laugh, and hoist yourself up to stand straight as you wander into the ring of light cast by the single lightbulb above.

"Wrong," you say, passing Bucky the knife by the hilt. "I'm definitely the good cop."

"No way," Bucky slides the knife into its sheath on his thigh. "Last week you broke a guy's arm while I was trying to interrogate him."

The target whimpers, his shudders getting more jerky and panicked by the second.

"Well, he took too long to answer," you say lightly, casting Bucky a wink. He returns a smile - he really does make the job so much easier. A perfectly timed lie. You turn your gaze to the target, studying his wild eyes for a moment - then, leaning forward, you grip the back of the metal chair by the target's ear. He flinches away, squeezing his eyes shut. Can't even look you in the eyes. Sad.

"Alright, buster," you say.. "We're gonna need the coordinates of that ship you sent off two days ago."

"C - coordinates? The ship's gone - I don't know where it is - "

"Don't be nincompoop," Bucky's voice says behind you. "Nearly every government in the world can track their own damn mail - and you're telling me you don't track a shipment of dirty guns?"

Blinking, you twist back to lift your brows at Bucky. "Who says nincompoop?" you ask, bemused. He frowns, clearly miffed.

"Um - I do."

"Okay, Grandpa." You turn back to the target. He stinks of sweat and maybe a bit of urine - well, you hadn't meant to scare him that much. You straighten, dusting your hands off. "What do you think?" you ask Bucky. "How many fingernails does it take someone to open a package?"

Bucky shrugs. "Just one, at most. You can always use tweezers or something. Or phone a friend."

You nod, pretending to think. "Alright. You've convinced me. Well - let's get started."

A feral grin grows on Bucky's face as he pulls back out his newly sharpened knife - the target's face drains of color as he stares. At the knife, at Bucky's metal fingers, at Bucky's face - at you. You yawn.

"Quicky, if you can," you say in a bored voice. "I have a hankering for some pizza after this - "

"What about that place you took me to last week?" Bucky asks, interest piquing. "With the artichoke pizza?"

"Yeah, that sounds good to me. Now hurry and get the job done - "

"Wait!" the target shrieks, and Bucky crouches beside him to grab hold of his fingers. "Wait! I'll tell you! I have - I know where it is. I got a notification just this morning. The shipment is in Kingston overnight. The Wharves. Don't tell them I told you - " his voice breaks into sobs. "Don't tell them. Please."

You exchange a look with Bucky. He sighs, and stands.

"Well, I was hoping to work up an appetite," he grumbles.

"We still can," you say cheerily. "Target can't just walk free. Do you think hanging him up a flagpole by his underwear is too juvenile?"

Bucky laughs. "Nope. Haven't done that one in a hot minute. Let me find a hook."


	15. Ain't Misbehavin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky overhears a conversation he probably wasn’t meant to hear and tries to extract some revenge - but the joke’s probably on him.

Busy tying his hair back into a bun, Bucky wanders out the men's locker room towards the empty gym. Only half-formed thoughts of lifting weights or whatever is on his mind, with distant hopes of having pizza sometime that day. Suddenly his hair stands on end, as two familiar voices reach his ears from somewhere to the left. The women's room.

"I dunno, Nat," you're saying. "I'd have to think about it. You first."

"Okay," Natasha's voice replies. "Here goes: date Steve, marry Stark, fire Clint."

The musical sound of your laughter stalls Bucky in his tracks. Backing up against the wall, he tilts his head with interest to listen in better. His heartbeat is suddenly very fast.

"Poor Clint," you chortle.

"Missions stress him out. I'm doing him a favor," Natasha says. "Steve would be such a gentleman to date, you know? But Tony - I gotta go for the money."

"Yeah, that makes sense," you reply, and Bucky squints, a bit confused at what he's hearing. "But so many problems come with money, you now?" you continue. "I'd marry...Steve."

" _Steve_?" Bucky mouths to himself as Natasha laughs.

"You're onto something with the gentleman thing," you explain to Nat. "I'd definitely want that everyday, if you know what I mean."

"Very fair," Natasha agrees.

"And you're right about Clint - I'd fire him. At the very least we wouldn't have to listen to his running commentary on missions anymore. Though come to think of it, I'd probably miss it…" You break off into a laugh, and Bucky snorts to himself.

"Then who would you date?" Natasha prompts.

"Hmm. Probably Bucky."

"Bucky?" Nat asks, her voice laced with surprise. Bucky rolls his eyes. It can't be  _that_  surprising.

"He looks like a good kisser," you say, and your voice is drawing near. Shoot. Bucky steps back into the men's room, and just in time - the sound of two pairs of sneakers on the gym floor reach his ears.

"I can see that," Natasha's voice is swallowed by the large space of the room, and Bucky strains his ears. "You know, if we add the category 'kill' on there, I'd probably choose Barnes - put him out of his misery."

"Oh, please," you say lightly, as Bucky gapes in indignantly. "He's not that miserable. He just hides it."

"Uh huh. Who would you kill?"

A pause. Then, "Stark. Then you can share your widow's fortune with me."

Yours and Natasha's joined laughter fills the gym. Bucky swallows his, and as the voices move further away, he jaunts from the men's locker room as if he hadn't just been eavesdropping. Immediately his eyes flicker to you, where you're tightening the laces of your shoes by a treadmill. With Natasha's back turned, you meet his gaze across the gym. Smirking. Of course you are.

You'd only  _date_ him? And you'd rather marry  _Steve_?

Bucky lifts a brow, just to show you that he had, in fact, heard every word of your conversation with Nat, as he wanders over to the weight-lifting equipment to warm up. He can't get the image of your workout clothes out of his mind, though.

The chit-chat you and Natasha keep up while jogging is much less exciting - SHIELD paperwork. Bucky zones out as he starts his workout, only glancing over at you...rarely. Well, maybe a little more often that 'rarely'. But not often. Well, not _too_  often.

Only a half hour later Natasha moves on to the weight rack, and Bucky watches as you turn off your treadmill. He immediately racks the bar he was using, and jumps to his feet. You aren't blind to him - it almost forgives your choosing Steve over him. With a brow quirked, you pause at the treadmill to slug some water out of your water bottle as Bucky saunters over.

"Hey, Agent," he says with a smile. "Wanna spar?"

Your lips curl upwards. "Wanna lose?" you shoot back.

"Ha, ha. Just because it happened once doesn't mean you're gonna get lucky again."

"Sure, Barnes.  _Sure_." Whether you're expressing disbelief that you won't beat him again, or that you're agreeing to spar with him - Bucky isn't sure. But with a shrug you head for the open mats, and he hurries behind. Trying not to watch as you roll your shoulders to warm up the muscles.

He takes a stance across from you. You brace yourself, meeting his eyes boldly. Bucky grins. You grin back. A moment of sparking electricity - it's for the best that Natasha is otherwise occupied. He makes a jab for your left arm, and you dodge.

A few more missed punches, and Bucky winces at a kick to the back of his knee. But he doesn't fall, and next time you're in his eyesight, he says in a low mutter,

"You really shouldn't have conversations like that where just anyone can hear."

A breathless giggle from you - and he ducks as you make a strike for his head. "Well, I probably should be playing with fire either, and yet - here I am."

Bucky likes that spark in your eyes. He hooks a leg behind yours, but not pulling to drag you down - instead he holds it there as you try to catch your breath, studying him curiously. Then you twist around, and out of his trap. Your movements are so graceful - it's like watching a dance. Which accounts for Bucky's distraction. And why you'd won last time.

"Didn't you like how well thought out my answers were?" you ask next, ducking under a punch.

"No," he says shortly.

"Aw, why not?" you tease. "Steve seems like such a good choice."

"Steve snores," Bucky informs you. "Think again."

You laugh, and he's forced to roll to the side to miss one of your knees coming down on his gut. You land hard on the mat.

"If I'd said you, I would've had to give Nat a reason," you explain, rising back to your feet. "Couldn't have said it's because I enjoy your body so much."

Bucky chuckles. "Sure you could've. It's an excellent point." He tries to swipe a leg beneath you, but you jump to avoid it and he narrows his eyes. He's growing a bit hot - not just sweaty - as he pushes some loose hair from his face.

"Why? Who would you chose?" you challenge him. "Me, Nat, Pepper, Sharon - take your pick. Date, marry, fire."

"Easy." Bucky rolls to his feet, and your fist connects with his ribs. He winces. "You, you, and - Nat. She gets nosy sometimes."

"Aww, Buck," you coo, your hand suddenly very soft on his shoulder. "You're too sweet." Then you push down hard, and he falls on his knees. Weak. He's so used to going where you urge him, it's not easy to get into the mindset of sparring. Good thing Sam isn't there.

"Is it because I'm sexy?" your purring voice tickles his ear, and without warning your knee is in his back, forcing him to the mat entirely. Bucky's face is squished onto the plastic, and he flails helplessly. But you're stronger than you look.

"Yeah," he mumbles, half-sighing. He should've known he'd lose.

"Is it because I love ya so good?" you whisper.

" _Hnngh_...yeah. Yeah, it is." His heart beat is out of control. Even though Bucky's pretty sure he's not tired. Your huffing laugh is soft in his ear, and his skin prickles pleasantly.

"Thanks for letting me win," you say, louder now as the pressure on his back is released. "Best two out of three?"

Bucky rolls over with a groan, blinking at the bright lights above. Partially obstructed by you, hands on your waist as you smile smugly down at him. "I think I'm humiliated enough today," he says, giving you a beady stare. "I've gotta hit the showers before I get too hot and bothered."

Your smile broadens. "Sure. Take all the time you need." And you turn to saunter away. Bucky keeps an eye on your retreating form as you disappear into the locker room. Damn.

He lays there a moment more, trying to get a grip on himself (and the situation in his shorts.) Then he climbs to his feet, a little disappointed as Natasha wanders off to the locker room, too. And he'd half-considered sneaking into the women's room…

Running his fingers through his hair, Bucky departs the gym. His memory is favoring him with some delicious images of you from the sparring match. Skin glowing, hair shining, and your smile - he loves your smile best of all. And your laugh.

The locker room is quiet. Mostly. He grabs a towel to take to the showers, and coming 'round the bend - stops in his tracks.

Leaning against the tile wall in the last shower stall, your eyes lift to meet his, glittering with smugness as Bucky stares.

"This is the men's locker room," he deadpans.

"Good," you say, just as plainly as he starts to tug his sweaty shirt over his head. "I'm looking for one." Tossing his shirt to the side, Bucky watches your eyes travel downwards. Hunger sparks there - and in his shorts, too. Again. Your fingers hover over where you'd been typing on your phone.

"This is a bit public, don't you think?" Bucky asks, quirking a brow.

You shrug. "I have my ways."

"Which are?"

"Promise not to tell?"

" _Sure_ , babe."

Your smile is feral. "I can reroute Stark's security cams from my phone."

Bucky chortles. "Does Stark know that?"

"Nope. You gonna get in or not?" You lift your brows in challenge, and what the hell - Bucky yanks off his shorts to toss away. Into the shower, latching the shoulder-high door behind him, and twisting the water knob on. You step aside to avoid the spray, back to the door as you set your phone on the tile ledge.

"You gonna stand there and watch?" he asks, askance. You don't move. Arms crossed, and looking so damned pleased. It's a good look.

"I like a good show," you say. Your eyes flicker over him again. A little banter with you always has its effects on Bucky - trying to keep himself from blushing, he grabs some soap and starts to work it over his chest. Keeping very intense eye contact with you. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips.

"You know," Bucky says lazily. "If our roles were reversed, I'd think this a pretty cruel torture. Just watching."

"Who says I'm here to  _just_  watch?" you purr. Loosening your arms, you trail your fingers down Bucky's soapy chest - and causing his muscles to clench in response. Then you're crouching, and Bucky sucks in a breath as his eyes roll back in his head.

"Anyone can walk in," he barely manages to say, his voice suddenly very hoarse.

"Mmph. Don't stop washing yourself, Barnes. If you take too long, someone  _could_ get suspicious."

Forcing himself to peek an eye open, Bucky's heart gives a little leap to see your smile. He can't resist your smile - all the mischief and affection that shines from your face. There's a bit of soap on your nose. It's adorable. Then your lips are on his skin, and he groans.

Soap. Wash himself. He can't. Bucky's metal fingers find the ledge of the tile walls, clenching and cracking a tile or two with a shuddering  _snap_. His opposite elbow jerks as he balls his hand into a fist, knocking the shower knob. The water is suddenly burning on his back, but he barely notices and cares even less. He can feel steam clinging to his skin that isn't in the flow of water, and he struggles to swallow.

"Hope you're not getting wet," Bucky rasps.

"Mmph. Do you really?" There's more than a hint of teasing in your voice, and he peeks open an eye again - eyes sparkling, you give a little, vibrating laugh that makes his toes curl with pleasure.

"I meant from the shower," he clarifies.

"Nah, you're blocking most of it."

Good. Why is it good, again? Bucky can scarcely think. But when the door from the hallway squeaks open, he nearly jolts out of skin - you don't pause, which makes his blood rush white-hot, and he hears a familiar tread.

Steve. Shoot.  _Steve_. Anyone else you'd be hidden from, but the super-hearing thing? Steve will be able to hear your heartbeat and breathing. Impulsively and more than a little wildly, Bucky finds the soap again, yanking it across his skin as he starts to half-shriek, half-sing at the top of his lungs,

_No one to talk with  
_ _All by myself  
_ _No one to walk with  
_ _But I'm happy  
_ _On the shelf  
_ _Ain't misbehavin'..._

"Hey, Buck," Steve's head appears over the rim of the showers as he tugs off a sweatshirt.

"Huh - hi," Bucky says loudly, sloshing extra water around. Maybe it'll distract Steve. He doesn't dare look at you - even though he very much wants to.

"Finished already?" Steve asks. Bucky blinks - oh, no, Steve couldn't have meant  _that_.

"Yuh - yeah." And he hums some more, off-key. Steve winces.

"Well. See you at lunch."

"Er, yeah. See ya. Have a good workout," Bucky half-shouts, and Steve walks away towards the door to the gym. Bucky keeps up his wailing singing, until the door is shut. Then he lets out a long breath, pinching his brows as he glares down at you.

"I'm gonna pay you back for that," he says roughly.

Your eyes glint. "I hope you do."

Bucky catches his breath, and no longer caring, reaching down to pull you back up, crashing his lips to yours as soon as humanly possible. The taste of your salty sweetness is enough to drive him completely bonkers. A little whimper forms in your throat as your fingers tangle in his wet hair.

"Well," you say, pulling away as you clear your throat. Still smiling. "I need to change out of these - um, dirty clothes. See you tonight?"

"After that?" Bucky lifts a brow. "You'll be lucky if I don't accost you in  _your_  locker room."

"Natasha's still there," you inform him, running your hands up and down his arms. "She takes  _forever_."

Groaning, Bucky makes a nip for your lips again, and you giggle. With a last, lingering kiss, you back out of the shower with a wink and turn to stride away. Bucky can't help admiring your every movement, licking his lips.

He's in slightly better condition when he leaves the locker room some five minutes later; mostly dry and wearing clean clothes. A trample up to the common areas of upper Avengers Tower, Bucky is disappointed that you aren't around - until he arrives at the kitchen looking for a snack, that is.

A perfectly innocent smile curling those lips. He doesn't even see Natasha, until she speaks.

"Stark's planning a party tonight for something or another, so don't eat too much," Nat advises.

A party. Bucky groans, pulling open the refrigerator. That's going to delay when he'll be able to sneak away to your place…

"I got you an iced coffee from downstairs," you interrupt, and he closes the door, a little baffled. You're holding out a cup to him, yours in your opposite hand. At his pause, you add with a smile, "No milk, extra shot of espresso. Just the way you like it."

"Good memory," he says lightly, wishing Natasha about four thousand miles away.

But it's not to be. His gaze lingering on your face a moment more, Bucky turns away to leave you and Nat to your conversation.

* * *

Two days later, Bucky is bouncing down the steps from his bedroom to the common area. He's feel really good - a snatched makeout that morning in the kitchen before Clint had showed up does that to him - he's thinking of you. Wondering where you are. Which is quickly answered, as he stalls at the sound of voices from the open door to Natasha's bedroom.

You. And Nat.  _Again._

Bucky doesn't move, tilting his head to listen.

"You know, I was giving it some thought," you say casual-like, and Bucky's heart gives a little leap. "I wouldn't want to marry Steve. He has way too much angst in his life."

Natasha laughs. "Fair. Who then?"

"Well, I think I'd date Sam. He'd be a lot of fun, you know?"

"Definitely. You'd marry Barnes, then? Because he has plenty of angst, too."

"True," you sigh, as Bucky huffs to himself. "But those lips - I really just think he'd be such a good kisser. There are worse things to live with than great kissing."

A snort from Natasha. "His metal hand is cold."

"Could be fun."

"Wow, 28.  _Wow_."

With a smirk on his face and a jaunt in his step, Bucky whistles to himself and continues on.


	16. A Brick to the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of laundry mix-up, bad flirting, and some light-fingered thievery.

"We have a problem," Sam announces. The kitchen quiets - problems at the scale the Avengers are used to are nothing to be flippant about. When it's appropriately silent, he removes his hands from behind his back, stringing out -

Underwear.  _Your_  underwear. Bucky's heart skips a beat as his face burns.  _Shoot_.

"I found  _this_  in my laundry," Sam says indignantly, as a snort from Stark is quickly disguised into a cough. "And it ain't mine."

"You sure?" Bucky teases, forcing a lazy tone. It's a good thing you aren't there - he probably wouldn't be able to keep from looking at you and enjoying some shared humor -  _that_ would be noticed, even if running his fingers through his hair is going to help with his red ears.

"I'd remember that," Sam snaps back. Then he forces a smile. "Natasha? I'm assuming?"

"No," Nat says with a shrug. "And if they were, I'd thank you not to show them off in front of everyone."

"Steve? Clint? You guys have hot dates this last weekend?" Sam asks next, beady glare on Steve and Clint, respectively.

"I wish," Clint says.

"Sadly, no," Steve says, and then blinks. "Why didn't you ask Bucky?"

"Because I know no girl in her right mind would be interested in Tin-man here."

Bucky's amusement stalls. Narrowing his eyes, he hates Sam's little smug grin at the joke. Quickly he shoots back, "And since you don't know whose underwear that is,  _you_  clearly haven't had any hot dates either, huh, Bird Brain?"

Dead silence. Then Tony is howling, and Clint bangs on the table as gasps for breath between laughs. Even Natasha is giggling, and Steve, biting his lip very hard, can't stop a snort from escaping. Bucky feels a bit better. Sam's expression falls.

"Good morning!" A new voice joins the fray - the laughter begins to quiet as you stride into the kitchen, looking very fresh. Bucky's heart does another little skip as you bounce over to pick up an orange from a fruit bowl by him. The tiniest smile is exchanged. Then you whirl back around, and stall.

"Hey! Those are mine."

Dead silence, again. Everyone stares - Bucky included, because he has to be ignorant - as you yank away the underwear from Sam's limp grip.

"What?" you ask, noticing the tension in the room as you shove your underwear in your back pocket.

"Didn't know you did laundry here," Stark comments.

You shrug, with far more nonchalance than Bucky could have managed. "Sometimes my gear gets wadded up with everyone else's after missions. You're probably gonna find the rest of my stuff to go with this."

"Wasn't in my load," Sam cuts in.

No, it wasn't. Because those were folded neatly under Bucky's bed. He was unlucky that Sam had used the washer and dryer after him. No one else would have made such a big deal about it.

"So, are we going to have this debriefing, or what?" you ask, breaking the silence again. A perfect actress. Bucky grins to himself, admiring the skewed neckline of your top. Just beneath the seam, he can see the slightest hint of fading bruise. A mark  _he'd_  left there.

And Sam thought Bucky couldn't get a date. Little did Sam know…

"Right, let's go!" Stark claps his hand, and the kitchen files out with a chorus of groans.

You don't miss the glint in Bucky's eye - it would be impossible to, since you've memorized that knowing, sultry expression you've been enjoying so much. With the tracest smirk in his direction, you head off to the briefing room in front of him. His gaze is hot on your back. He might even try something - if Natasha hadn't fallen into step beside you to ask where you buy your underwear and if it was a good price.

Good. A little suffering won't hurt Bucky.

The debriefing, once started, is as boring as you expected. The mission Tony is expounding on was long finished (as in, yesterday), and had gone off so smoothly that you'd half-feared it had been a trap. But no. Just an easy mission.

Far more interesting than Stark talking is Bucky across the table. His arms are crossed on the surface, and unlike the others his body isn't pointed towards Tony is some semblance of listening. No, Bucky is leaning towards  _you_. Letting your eyes linger on his arms a moment, you finally glance upwards to his face. He's looking straight at you. Real subtle. Then his lips twist upwards. A heat flares across your body - you lace your fingers together in an appearance of nonchalance, and wink back.

"And lastly," Tony says, finally. "I was informed that the news coverage we missed last night will be re-aired a noon today."

" _What?_ " Sam's sudden and gleeful shout makes you jump - as well as everyone else at the table. "Why didn't you say anything sooner? We gotta see it! Everyone's got to!"

"Okay, okay, we can watch it," Natasha says immediately, her tone even. "Don't worry, Sam."

But he won't be calmed. "I gotta go turn on the tv. It's almost noon now! Tony, why'd you wait so long!" And Sam positively zips from the room, leaving behind some snickers and exchanged amusement.

"Well, meeting's over, I guess," Stark says after a moment, glancing at his watch. "Again, great work on the mission, those that went on the mission - help yourselves to a treat or something. And don't miss the broadcast, or Sam will never shut up about it."

With a sigh, you stand, brushing down your pants though they're as clean as when you put them on that morning. You can hear Bucky's low voice talking to Steve beside him - too bad - and Natasha immediately claims your attention again.

"Thirsty?" she asks.

Suppressing a smile, you tear yourself away from the room where Bucky is, despite your ever instinct screaming at you to stay. "More than you know."

"Then let's go."

The kitchen is sunny, and the refrigerator nearly overflowing with goodies. It's easy to chat with Natasha, but less so when Bucky squeezes past the pair of you to about his own business. Every hair on your body seems aware of him nearby - standing on end and shivering a little as you admire his bum out of the corner of your eye.

Luckily your drink is cold.

"Show's on in five," Sam announces to the kitchen in general, interrupting your conversation. Natasha rolls her eyes as Sam bounces out towards the common room, where the television is blaring some commercial. You quirk a brow at Nat as you take a long slug of your drink, to keep from laughing.

"You'd think he'd never seen himself on tv before," she says dryly, standing up straight from where she'd been leaning against the counter.

"He should enjoy it," you say wisely. "We haven't had a casualty-free mission in weeks."

Natasha's lips twitch. "Yeah, that potato bomb one was especially rough…"

"Hey!" you jab a finger in her direction, unable to stop a laugh before adding, "It was an accident. And nobody died from that one, anyway."

"All the mice in the building did."

"Ladies." The vibrating timbre of a low voice makes a little shiver crawl up your spine. Biting your lip to keep from smiling, you glance over at Bucky, who is holding a pair of drinks in his hand as he makes to sidle between you and Nat. In his defense, the two of you  _are_ blocking the way out of the kitchen - but you don't move, and Natasha can't. Facing you, Bucky gives a little smirk downwards in your direction as he slows  _ever so slightly_ , sure to brush

his chest against your front. You lift a brow in return, glancing down at his mouth without thinking. His smile broadens. He'd probably heard the little stutter in your heartbeat. Unfair.

"Pardon me," he says airly, and without looking back follows Sam's tracks to the common room.

"Rude," Natasha says, loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't respond.

"Learn some manners, Barnes," you grumble good-naturedly. You're positive he heard it. If you aren't mistaken, Bucky's shoulders shake with a disguised laugh.

"Last commercial!" Sam hollars, voice echoing far more than it should.

"We'd better go," you say, setting your empty bottle on the counter. The kitchen is less enticing with Bucky gone, anyway.

There are no seats left in the common room when you at Natasha at last arrive, fashionably late. Already the news anchor is introducing the story, and Sam hushes Clint, telling Steve a joke about a hairless cat. Nat sits on the armrest of the red chair where Tony is lounging, and you sit in front of the couch where you can admire Bucky's profile on the next couch over with an interested eye. If you so choose.

Which you do. Why watch the coverage of a mission when you'd been there yourself?

Bucky mutters something to Steve beside him, his teeth flashing as he gives a soft laugh. Chuckling, Steve responds quietly. What  _is_  it about Bucky's smile that makes you want to jump across the room and pin him to the couch? Or maybe it's his strong fingers, wrapped around his glass. Or those thick legs, casually crossed at the ankle. Or the fact that you can see his rippling pectorals through his too-tight shirt.

That last night before your mission, when Bucky had snuck over to your place and stayed for about four hours, seems more and more like ancient history.

"Stop it! My part's coming up!" Sam snaps, gaze riveted.

You drag your eyes to the television.

 _"Would you say this could have had serious consequences?"_  a young blond woman is solemnly asking Sam, dressed in gear and looking a bit beat up despite the beaming grin on his face.

 _"Oh, yeah!"_  Sam-on-the-tv replies jauntily.  _"But thanks to a timely warning, we got here in the nick of time - "_

"You said 'time,' twice," Natasha says.

"Shh!" Sam waves his hand at her, not looking away from the screen.

 _"Wasn't so bad once I figured we should cut the power lines in the neighborhood,_ " Falcon continues.

"That was 28's idea!" Steve protests.

"She ain't going on to tell anyone that," Sam points out. "You can have the credit they give me, Agent. Promise."

"Thanks…" you trail off awkwardly, as Clint and Natasha laugh. And Bucky, too - you dare to peek over at him. His lips are curled in a little smile as his eyes rake over your face. Hot prickles immediately break out on your skin, and you palm a suddenly-sweating hand over your knee. But you smile back, all the same.

 _"We owe the Avengers a great debt_ ," the woman on-screen continues.  _"From all of us in Portland, allow me to thank you personally. Thank you, Falcon._ "

Falcon's grin couldn't possibly get any bigger.  _"You're welcome, baby. Call me anytime."_

"Wow," Natasha says.

"Real smooth," you say.

"Gross," Clint says.

"That's a bit inappropriate," Steve says.

"Did you get her number?" Stark asks. Now that the newscast has gone back to the anchors in the studio, Sam finally tears his eyes away. His smirk is something to behold as he looks around to make sure everyone is looking at him.

"You bet I did!"

Mingled laughter and groans of disbelief echo in the common room. Stark mutes the television, giggling like a proud papa as he reaches over to clap Sam on the back. Though you can't help laughing as well - this is just such a typical Sam thing to do - you feel a trace of Natasha's disgust. Hitting on a woman on national television? Clint and Steve were right. It was gross  _and_ inappropriate. The woman's boss had to watch that clip.

"I'm gonna go wash out my eyes," you say loudly, standing from the floor and stretching a bit. "Seriously Sam. Not all of us need to see your moves projected on a 56" screen."

"You wanna see 'em in real life?" Sam jibes back, casting you a wink.

"Maybe if you're a bit more subtle," you tease. Winding around the couch as general laughter breaks out again, you knock your shin against Bucky's crossed legs. He's blocking the way. Lifting a brow at him, you see the pinch of his expression.

"I prefer subtlety," you say by way of explanation.

"No grand gestures?" Steve asks to join the conversation.

"Nah. I'm a simple girl."

Glittering blue eyes still on you, Bucky slowly moves his legs back so you can pass.

"Thanks," you chirp, and wind out of the room and through the hall to the bathroom. Behind you, there's a clink as a glass is set on the coffee table.

In the bathroom, you take a lazy moment to wash your hands with some of Stark's expensive soap. And then lather on some lotion. Slowly.

A quiet knock on the door.  _Tap, tap tap. Tap, tap tap._

You smile, and unlatch the door to swing it open.

"You want Sam to hit on you now, huh?" Bucky's gaze is hard and dark, but not frighteningly so as he stalks into the bathroom. The chatter from the common room is cut off as you push the door shut, and he reaches behind to lock it.

"What did you want me to say?" you reply, not moving an inch backwards. " _Oh, sorry Sam, but I'm kinda seeing Bucky. But you have to keep it a secret, because I might lose my job. That's why I told you, the last person about to keep a secret."_

The hardness has dissipated from Bucky's eyes. Now smiling, his fingers grasp you by the waist, digging gently into your flesh as he draws you closer to stand flush with his body.

"I'm beginning to think you're a menace," he murmurs, breath warming your face with his special, Bucky smell. You huff a chuckle, spreading your fingers across the hard muscles of his chest. Yum.

"You think so?" you whisper back, nudging his scruffy chin with the tip of your nose. "Then how about you try some of your moves on me, and then I'll forget all about Sam."

"Is that a threat?"

"Maybe it's a promise."

Bucky's lips twitch. His glinting eyes are fastened on yours, daring you to make the first move. But you hold out - and a moment later his warm hands are tracing the curve of your spine as he finally laughs.

"I missed you," he says softly.

"I was only gone two days," you remind him.

"Don't care. Too long." And his lips finally press into yours, soft for a scant-second before desperation leaks into his actions - cupping the back of your head with his flesh hands, his tongue slips past your lips as if to devour your very taste.

Moaning softly, you tangle your fingers in his loose hair as his hips push forward. You want this as much as he does - there's no denying it, especially from a man who both smell your arousal and hear your racing heart - but with the team so close, and only a half-hearted excuse to buy time…

His mouth trails hotly to your ear, taking a little nibble as you hold back a moan. "How's that for subtle?" Bucky asks huskily, his deep voice reverberating in your ear and making you shiver with anticipation. And then you giggle.

"Bucky Barnes, you're about as subtle as a brick to the head."

He chuckles, trailing back to your mouth to kiss you fiercely once more as his hands move down on the curve of your body. Then, before you can protest, his fingers dip into the back pocket of your pants and pull out your stray underwear as he breaks off the kiss. To your disgruntlement.

"Hey!" you protest.

"I'll take those back," he says smugly.

"They're  _mine_ , you goof."

"Mine now. Besides, I miss you when you're away."

" _Two days!_ " you repeat, laughing all the same as Bucky pockets the underwear, his smirk never wavering. "Oh, Buck - if you really miss me that much, we can tap out Morse code to each other during briefings. Always plenty of time to get distracted during those."

Bucky tilts his head, a little flash of hope in his blue eyes - which promptly fades as he sighs. "Won't work. Everyone here knows Morse code."

"Oh, I thought it was only geezers," you tease. He gasps indignantly, and you're rewarded with a pinch on the behind - squirming and laughing, Bucky quickly shushes you with a smile.

"They're gonna come looking for us," he whispers. Your grin fades, and reluctantly, you unwind your arms from around his neck.

"Will I see you tonight?" you ask softly, smoothing down the wrinkled front of his shirt.

"Leave your window unlocked and I will."

Impulsively you tuck some hair behind his ear, too. The softness in eyes makes your stomach flutter as you smile. "Always."


	17. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go down on a mission, and Bucky rushes to your rescue. A little too quickly.

A single, piercingly bright lightbulb is swinging eerily above your head. It blurs, and turns into two. How very odd. You turn on your side and vomit.

The stink clears your head just a little; you can feel the cold ground through your tactical gear, the slime and damp common in underground bunkers. Though there's a swollen feeling in your ears, distant pops of gunfire make you groan. That action, combined with your stomach still cramping, makes a spot in your side throb. Waves of pain start to cloud your vision, but you bite your lip to stay conscious. You press your shaking fingers into the worst spot, and your glove comes away sticky and shiney.

Well, lovely.

More waves of nausea cause clenching and pulsing in your midsection; not just nausea, but the 'just been shot' pain that makes you want to reconsider your career choices. But now's really not the time.

You try to roll onto your uninjured side, taking your time to hoist yourself on your knees as you keep a hand pressed into your wound. It does  _not_  feel good. Biting your lip, you taste blood as more dizziness makes your head pound. The dizziness wins this time - you crumble back onto the ground, giving a moan as you curl up into a ball in some desperate sense of self-preservation.

How long you lie there, you don't know. It seems like everything is fuzzy and tinged with red, unable to complete a thought or even wonder what's going to happen to you. The spreading heat of your wound is overtaking your entire body in wracking flames, and you begin to shake.

Eventually a cold hand presses into your neck, and you try to force your eyes open. No luck. Then hands are gently guiding you onto your back, and pull away your hand to view the damage at your side. There's a hiss of breath from somewhere nearby. You barely hear it through the sound of your own pounding heart.

"We need to get you on the jet. Are you with me?"

The voice is familiar. Of course it is. Right? You must be a little loopy, because a smile curls your lips even though you still lack the will to open your eyes.

"Bucky," you murmur.

"I'm here. I've got you. There's a first aid kit waiting on the jet; we can - "

"Bucky," you say again, this time weakly.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Would you be against just killing me instead?"

A pause. Then, you can hear Bucky's exasperation in his voice. "If you're making jokes, you must be okay. Come on." And his arm slides under your neck, the other underneath your knees. You whimper as the streaks of pain intensify at this treatment, and you sling an arm behind his neck to cling to him. Bucky lifts you with no effort, and his sweaty, spicy scent fills your nostrils as you bury your face into his neck.

He takes off at a brisk stride. The rifle on his back bounces with his walk, and bonks you in the head.

"Ow," you snivel.

"Sorry." Bucky gentles his steps.

A rush of fresh air hits you like a wave. Out of the bunker already. You consider peeking open your eyes to see where you even are - it's hard to remember where this mission is, since you hadn't paid very much attention to the briefing anyway. Something about Bucky's hand stroking your leg under the table in the conference room. Of course, you hadn't known you were in danger of dying.

"Where are we?" you ask, as you hear Bucky's boots clomp onto the jet.

"Argentina."

"Oh."

"And you and I are going home. There's already another jet on the way for the rest of the time when they're done with the mission."

Your eyes fly open. You're lying on a row of seats, with Bucky hovering as he yanks open a box of medical supplies. He turns his head to stare at you.

"The mission isn't finished?" you demand.

"Er - not yet."

"And you think you can just  _leave_?"

Bucky's jaw ticks. "Well, I can go back. And then you can die right here."

"The mission is - "

"Not as important as your life. Don't even try that on me."

"If you leave like this the team might find out that we're - "

"They won't." With a scowl Bucky leaves the medkit on your legs (his experience with field medicine is, of course, a little haphazard), and he leans over to rip open your tac vest. Haphazard, and  _not_  subtle.

The shreds of vest are thrown to the floor, and slightly more gently Bucky starts to peel away your sticky, black t-shirt. You hiss at the fresh pain emanating as air tickles the exposed nerve ends, and you look down to see a bloody, pulpy mess. Bucky's fingertips are stained red.

You look up to the ceiling of the jet again, bile rising.

"Is your skin supposed to be turning purple?" Bucky asks after a moment.

"Don't think so. Unless Hydra has some new weird weapon."

You wait for Bucky's response - he's pretty good at the bantering thing - but he doesn't say anything. Oh no. Hydra has some new weird weapon. No wonder you're so incapacitated. You've carried on with gunshot wounds before, but you'd been in too much pain to give it a second thought of  _why_  there was so much pain. Lovely, lovely.

"FRIDAY, please take us back to the compound. Alert Dr. Banner that there's an unknown virus to worry about."

_"Yes, Sergeant Barnes."_

Gnawing your lip, you drag your gaze to Bucky. He's standing as is frozen, his eyes still on your wound. He glances at you, noticing your scrutiny.

"I don't dare do anything," he confesses. "I might mess you up worse."

"What's worse than missing half my waistline and turning purple?"

" _Dying_."

"Right. Well, none of my organs were hit, right?"

"No. I don't like them exposed this long though."

"How about a blanket," you joke. "Umbrella? Colchae?"

"Not funny."

"Very funny. Will you still love me now, Bucky? That I'm half the woman I was? You may have to start called me Agent 14."

"I've about had it with you," Bucky huffs, his brows creasing in annoyance. "Can't even take a life-threatening wound seriously."

"I take plenty of things seriously," you say in retort. "Pudding. Folding clothes correctly. Bowling league nights - "

"You know," he interrupts. He sits beside you, his irritated gaze still on your face as he laces his fingers together. "Hydra tested a drug on me that numbs vocal cords. Couldn't talk for weeks sometimes. Even when they let me. Now I wonder why they couldn't use that one on  _you_."

"Bucky! How rude."

"How well-deserved. FRIDAY, call Dr. Banner."

_"Right away, Sergeant Barnes."_

"I'm not treating you until he tells me what I should do," Bucky explains to you. He ignores your pouting lips. You're a bit miffed at his comment, or at least you think you are - your mind isn't feeling quite right. But at least the pain from the wound is tapering off. Or you're used to it. Or you're dying. But probably you wouldn't be in the mood to tease Bucky so much if you were dying. Or would you?

Bucky has picked up your limp hand, tracing little circles on your knuckles. His lips are moving, but you aren't making sense of it - white spots prickle where his face is, and your head lolls.

Voices weave in and out, and you aren't sure how conscious you are. One minute you're seeing Dr. Banner bending over you, but then his face is on a screen, growing and growing and growing, and Bucky pricks it with a knife like a balloon and Dr. Banner crumples to pieces. Then there's a cat on your face - no, not a cat. Bucky's hand. You think.

"We're almost home," he says. Or maybe it was, " _Ear is most chrome_."

You whimper. The pain from the wound is growing.

Your hair is being raked through by a fork. No, Bucky's fingers. Snagging painfully. But it clears your mind for a millisecond. Is there a record on? Is that Frank Sinatra you're hearing? Since when was he on the jet?

 _Is your figure less than Greek?_  
Is your mouth a little weak?  
When you open it to speak, are you smart?  
But, don't change a hair for me.  
Not if you care for me.  
Stay little valentine, please stay...

You dream of Bernini statues and Victorian cameras and chocolate.

* * *

When you wake, you're lying in a soft bed, surrounded by gentle beeps and wooshes and uninvasive footsteps. You moan, against your will, and you sense someone bending over you.

"Agent 28? How are you feeling?"

That's not Bucky's voice. Your eyes shoot open, and you stare at Dr. Banner, who jolts back in surprise.

"You're back in New York," he says hastily as your heartbeat picks up. "We got that Hydra stuff out of your system, and grafted some skin in place where the shot, um, tore you up. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," you say after about a second of consideration. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

The mission had been on Saturday. When you shift slightly in the hospital bed, you only feel a twinge of discomfort from your side. Not bad.

"Where - " you start to ask Dr. Banner, but a noise draws both of your attentions towards the door - Bucky, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, strides in with two cups of coffee. He glances over, and nearly stops in his tracks at the sight of you.

"You woke up!" he says in surprise. "While I was gone. Of course. You said she'd still be out for a while, doc," he adds to Dr. Banner, who clears his throat and steps away. Bucky hands him one of the cups of coffee, though his eyes never leave you as he strides to your side with a smile.

"Morning," Bucky tells you fondly. "Glad you decided to rejoin the living."

"Please. I wasn't dead."

"You were for a few minutes," Dr. Banner chimes in, gathering together a few things into his pocket. His phone, a pen.

"Well, I didn't see any white light, so clearly it wasn't too serious," you point out.

"And you aren't taking  _this_  seriously at all," Bucky says, mocking a scolding as he sits in a chair by your side. "Tony had to cancel an order of sympathy flowers for your parents."

"I don't believe you."

Dr. Banner is on his way out; he pauses only to call back this final confirmation before disappearing, "It's true!"

The doors are shut again. Now alone, Bucky picks up your hand in his warm one, squeezing tightly as his smile fades. You frown, noticing dark purple circles around his eyes.

"Surely you've been resting," you say.

"Um - yeah, a bit." Bucky looks down at his coffee, taking a prolonged sip as the tips of his ears turn red.

You decide not to fight that one. "Well, thank you for bringing me here, then. I guess you saved my life."

"I guess I did." That typical, Bucky Barnes smirk twists his lips as he adds, "Now you owe me."

"Oh, please. You would've done it for anyone."

"Speaking of...um, anyone…" Bucky winces slightly, ignoring your comment. "They, um, want to see you."

"Sure. I'm feeling up to visitors," you say after a moment. "Not that  _you_  even asked before waltzing in here to pester me…"

"Don't you even start that," he warns, lifting a finger from around his cup to point at your face.

"Oh, I'll start it," you sass. "And I'll finish it."

"Where did Dr. Banner go?" Bucky asks, looking around. "I wonder if he has more sedation for you."

"Har, har."

"Glad you're feeling normal." There's a warm smile on his face as he turns back you. Before you can do anything besides grin sillily in return, he stands and drops a kiss on your forehead. "Buzz if you need anything. I promised the team I'd tell them as soon as you woke up."

"Okay."

"Your phone's on the table. I've been keeping it charged."

"Oh….kay."

"Don't get out of bed."

"Yes, mom."

"I mean it." Bucky throws a glare back over his shoulder as he leaves the room. There's a level of threat in his eyes, but you don't take it the least bit seriously. Of course, you'll do as he says anyway - you are  _not_  feeling up to standing up yet.

The team arrives for their visit after supper; you're upright in the bed now, feeling loads better after eating a full meal (relatively full; it's a liquid-only diet, unfortunately). No one is looking as if your funeral arrangements had nearly been planned; they smile as they enter, Bucky most of all (the prideful little prick he was), and Natasha expertly slips you your favorite chocolate bar.

" _Thank you_ ," you mouth to her. She winks.

"How was the mission?" you say to the group, sticking a used napkin into your empty pudding cup. Dr. Banner is looking daggers at you - you slip the chocolate under the blankets. Hopefully it doesn't melt.

"It went perfectly, except for um, you," Tony says. He's looking down at his phone. "But thanks for getting a sample of Hydra's new biological weapon. That was convenient. Dr. Banner has been working on a vaccine so we don't have to worry about it again."

You knew that already - Dr. Banner had spent an hour with you that afternoon as you patiently and in detail described every symptom of the virus you'd been shot with.

"Might have been just as useful if you had died though," Tony continues. He must not be thinking - he sometimes zones out and...says stupid things. It's funny, except with Bucky clenches his fist, smile gone. "You know…" Tony adds, finally noticing the palpable change in the room. "Seen the full effects of the virus…"

"We can find that out without losing one of SHIELD's best agents," Steve points out, clearly having sensed Bucky's ire. "Buck - er, Nick would have your head."

"We're glad she didn't die," Bucky says stonily.

"Sure we are," Tony says hastily, swinging his legs over from where he was sitting to stand. "And we sure are glad you were so willing to abort your duties on the mission to rush her back."

Uh oh. In the tense silence that follows this, you push away the tray table from your lap, the wheels extra squeaky. Bucky is glaring down Tony (really, it hadn't been  _that_  obnoxious a comment), Tony is looking way too defensive, and Natasha...Natasha appears to be about a half-second from bursting into laughter. Baffled, you stare at her and she turns her head to meet your eyes.

"What's going on?" Clint asks. His arms are folded in front of his chest, leaning against the wall.

"Yes, what  _is_  going on?" Natasha repeats dryly.

Bucky lets out a long breath, deflating his anger as quickly as it had risen. Now rueful, his eyes flicker to you with a question in them. You shrug.

"Am I missing something?" Clint asks again.

Bucky walks to your side, picking up your hand as he glares dangerously around. "We're together," he says without preamble. "Have been for over a year. No rules against it - and pardon  _me_  for being concerned for her life while the rest of you could complete the mission just as well without me."

Whatever reaction Bucky was expecting, this probably isn't it.

"I know," Natasha says, and Bucky's fingers tighten on yours in surprise as she adds, "Anyone with eyes would notice. Or a nose. She uses a very unique perfume. Very distinctive from your usual deodorant, Barnes."

"I knew," Steve confesses. "Our rooms are right next to each other, Buck - you think I wouldn't notice you sneaking out at night? Wasn't hard to figure out where you were going when I started piecing things together."

"I knew," Tony chimes in. "FRIDAY sent me some security footage when an alarm accidently got triggered in, um, a supply closet a few months ago." He has the grace to blush. "There were, um, limbs everywhere."

"I knew," Sam says casually, twirling his phone in his hand. "Natasha told me."

"I knew," Dr. Banner adds awkwardly. "Bucky, um, talked to her a lot while she was under."

"Did you really?" you ask, turning to Bucky in surprise. "What did you say?"

"Never you mind," he replies gruffly. "What's more important is that we're apparently terrible at keeping secrets."

"Yes, you are," Natasha says.

"Well I didn't know!" Clint bursts out, standing up straight as he glances around, askance. "Why didn't anyone tell me, if you all already knew?"

"Because you'd probably never shut up about it, and it was fun pretending like we didn't know," Sam explains.

"This isn't fun," Bucky deadpans.

"Sure it is. Listening to Barnes lie himself in circles when he's sneaking around is  _hilarious,"_  Tony says with a scoff of laughter.

"I think we've had enough fun for tonight," Steve interrupts, standing from the windowsill. He strolls over to you, bending to plant a friendly kiss on your cheek. "Glad to see you're doing well, 28. Hope you're back to your feet soon." And he stands to look pointedly around the room, and everyone else hurries forward, too.

"Bye - bye - thank for coming," you barely have a chance to say as everyone says goodbye. This show of affection is a little strange. Natasha had once mentioned how untouchable you were - she had meant it as a compliment - but now it seems, agent or not, you're on your way to being officially adopted into a rather dysfunctional family.

When the door closes, Bucky's the only one left. He lets out a long, slow breath, in such a dramatic way that you start to laugh. And then you wince at the discomfort that twinges in your side.

"I don't know what to say," he says dully, dropping your hand to drag the chair Sam had been sitting in to your side.

"Stop," you command. Bucky pauses, glancing up at you in bafflement. You shift your weight to the side - rescuing your now-soft chocolate bar, and pat the bed beside you. It'll be a tight squeeze, but you don't care. Bucky lifts a brow in skepticism, and obeys. He stretches out long, pressed close to you with his warmth and spicy scent so familiar. Instead of draping his arm around your waist, he settles for holding one of your hands on the pillow between your heads. A slow grin creeps up his face.

"Well," he says. "I guess these last months have been a waste of effort."

"In our relationship?"

"No, in keeping it a secret."

"Oh, well," you say. You're over it. You tear away the wrapper of the chocolate with your teeth, breathing in a satisfied moan. "Thank you, Nat," you murmur, and take an enormous bite. Ahh...now  _that_  is medicine.

"Don't I get a bite?" Bucky asks plaintively.

"No. You haven't been living off an IV for four days."

"Meanie."

"You know it." You take another bite, unrepentant.

"So now what?" Bucky asks after a moment.

"Now I'm going to finish my chocolate."

"I mean, what do we do now?"

"Well - I'm hooked to wires so we can't exactly - "

"I mean, what do we do now that we aren't a secret?" he interrupts. There's a flicker of irritation in Bucky's lovely blue eyes, and you bite back a smile.

"I suppose that instead of sneaking off into supply closets, we can just use the kitchen. Or common area. Or - "

"Babe, you are ridiculous," Bucky laughs aloud. "You're never going to be serious, are you?"

"Maybe when I grow up." You wad up the wrapper, and toss it towards the trash receptacle on the other side of the room...and miss, by several feet. You sigh. "FRIDAY, dim the lights, please."

" _Yes, Agent 28."_

"But for now," you murmur, snuggling closer to Bucky. "I am going to sleep."

"Without brushing your teeth?"

"I'm an invalid. I can lay off the personal hygiene for a bit."

Bucky's face contorts into disgusted horror, and he leans slightly back from you. You start to laugh, following his trajectory to try to kiss his lips. He squirms - but you manage a peck on the corner of his mouth as he groans.

"Ewwwww."

"You love it."

"I love you," he says, suddenly serious. Flippancy gone, you smile as you drink in the sight of Bucky's shadowed face. The only light in the room is from the monitors beeping your brisk heart rate.

"I know."

"Can I...stay with you tonight?"

"Well, since everyone already knows we're an item…"

"Good." Bucky rests his forehead against yours, letting out a sigh that fans his warm breath across your face and seeps comfort into your limbs. You close your eyes at last, and the wound is forgotten.


	18. Phone Booth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A last minute make-out session in a closet before meeting back up with the team doesn’t turn out as planned.

Since you'd turned off your coms long ago - mission complete, and with ten minutes until rendezvous time at the jet - the sudden banging on the iron door jolts you and Bucky apart, breathing heavily as he quickly drops his hand from under your shirt. The door squeals, and a panicked Clint barges straight in and closes the door behind him.

"You turned off your coms," he snaps accusingly at the pair of you - you refuse to be embarrassed, merely curious at the sweat beaded on Clint's forehead, glistening in the dim floor lights of the tech room. Small tech room. Not really made for four people. Counting you, Bucky, the knocked-out guard on the floor, and now Clint.

"We finished our mission," you say, twisting slightly so that Bucky can wind his metal arm around your waist chastely instead. "And we've still got a few minutes until we have to be back - we just figured we'd make the most of it."

"Gross."

"What's going on?" Bucky asks, his voice a little rough.

"They deployed some sort of smoke weapon through the vents," Clint stands up a little straighter, wincing as he snaps his bow on his back. "Stark sent us all to the nearest rooms with closed vents."

"Luckily we're already here," you say, cooing slightly as you wink up at Bucky. He rolls his eyes fondly, giving your waist a little squeeze.

"You know, just because we all know you're dating now," Clint says vehemently. "Doesn't mean you can just go around frenching each other during missions. Lives are at stake here!"

"Oh, please," you brush this away. "This isn't the first mission we've made out on. This is just the first time you found out."

There are a few shouts from down the hall, and hurried footsteps. A split second later, and Clint is thrown from in front of the door as Steve and Natasha barge in wildly, shutting the door just as fast as they came through it. You're pressed back up against Bucky - you don't mind, and clearly neither does he - but the temperature with the extra bodies is rising fast.

"Aren't there any other closed ventilation systems?" Natasha asks, taking in the sight of you and Bucky - probably a little haphazard looking - and Clint, glowering and rubbing his arm. And bumping into Steve in the process. Natasha, deciding that the best personal space could be gained above the tiny metal desk in the room - hops on top. The security guard beneath doesn't move. Steve stands against the wall behind the door, one shoulder against the wall and one against Bucky.

A room good for two people and a body - not so good for six.

"Guess not," Steve answers.

"We got our intel," you say to everyone.

"Good for you," Clint says testily.

"Ugh, we were so close," Natasha sighs. "98% complete when the bomb was deployed."

"Bucky, I don't think the safety's on," Steve says, nodding at Bucky's leg - where, indeed, his gun is strapped and ready to fire. Must've happened during the  _frenching_ , as Clint called it. Bucky quickly flips the switch.

"Uh oh," Natasha says suddenly, pressing a finger to her ear. "Stark's coming in."

"No no no," Clint groans. "Doesn't his mask have a filtering system?"

"He got hit in the face with a motorcycle when we were coming in," you remind him. "Busted up his systems."

"Your holster's on the floor, 28," Natasha points out. You glance down - ah. Had Bucky unbuckled your thigh holster? It's possible. He does things like that sometimes.

Bending over as best you can in the tight space - Bucky muffles a groan behind you - oops, your rear is pressed up against him - you pick up your holster and strap it back on. And make sure the safety is on your Glock, too. Standing with a smile, you take you place against Bucky again, tilting your head slightly as he whispers a reprimand in your ear.

"You tryin' to spring me a boner in front of everyone, babe?"

You ignore him, merely smiling smugly to yourself instead.

"I wish I was deaf," Steve comments.

"It's worth it around them," Clint says.

The door opens again - only the slightest whiff of acrid air, and then Stark is through the door, shutting it behind him. His helmet flips open.

"When I build a secret lair, remind me to put more than one closed vent room in the building," he says. His back is against the door - the only space available. His armored knees knock against yours. Not very comfortable. Steve is shifting awkwardly, and Clint tries to scoot. There's nowhere to scoot.

"This is the worst game of seven minutes in heaven I've ever been invited to," Tony comments.

"Seven minutes in heaven ended when Clint showed up," you say.

Tony blinks. "Didn't need to know that."

"Where's Sam?" Natasha asks.

"Maybe he's lucky and made it out of the building," Clint says.

"Sam?" Steve says loudly, pressing a button on his com. Silence. Then he nods, and reports back, "Sam made it out. He's waiting at the jet."

"I should've tried to make it to the door," Clint laments.

" _Anyway_ , Jarvis has informed me that it will take approximately 48 hours for the chemicals to diffuse themselves safely out of the building," Stark informs the group at large. "Think Sam can bring back a gas mask and some things to speed it up?"

"Yes," Steve says resolutely.

Tony flips his helmet back on, and starts jabbering some technical talk to the missing Sam. Then a moment later, he opens his helmet again, scrunching his nose.

"Someone forgot deodorant today," Stark says, looking beadily around. Then he catches sight of the body beneath the desk. "Who's the dead guy?"

"He's not dead - he was guarding the server," you tell him. "Bucky hit him, that's all."

"He's lucky. Wish I could be knocked out," Clint sighs.

"That can be arranged," Bucky says, a little testily. You reach around, finding his fingers with yours to give a little squeeze.

"By the way, Stark, I'm going to be sending you the bills for therapy after this," Clint announces. "I'm going to need some serious help getting the image of Barnes's tongue down 28's throat out of my brain."

"Maybe group therapy will do the trick," you tease him. "What do you think, Buck? Shall we traumatize everyone?"

"No!" Steve says quickly, the tips of his ears bright red.

"No!" Stark says almost as fast, looking away awkwardly.

"Well," Natasha says, tilting her head.

"Gross," Clint says again, still miffed.

"You two are lucky you work so well together," Tony adds, pointing a finger between you and Bucky behind you. "Otherwise I'd put a stop to this nonsense right now."

"Oh, please. This nonsense has been going on for a year and a half and it's never bothered anyone before."

A chorus of protests starts as you finish speaking - you start to laugh, and Bucky's fingers find their way to the back pocket of your pants. No one notices. Yet.

"You know what," Natasha says slowly, narrowing her eyes as she studies you. "I once heard something very suspicious on the coms. I figured it was just 28 out of breath, running for a rendezvous point...now I'm questioning it."

"When was that?" you ask, bemused.

"Paris, last June."

"Oh. Yeah, I was already at the rendezvous. Bucky was, too."

"Let's change the subject," Steve says over Clint and Stark's groans. Bucky is laughing in your ear. You like the feeling of his breath on your skin, shivering slightly. Clint shifts, and Natasha ducks to avoid getting whacked in the head by the arrows strapped to his back. Before she can (gently, undoubtedly) remind him of the limited space in the closet, a heavy foot presses on yours and you yelp.

"Tony!" you say indignantly.

"Sorry, 28."

"Clint!" Natasha snaps, ducking again.

" _Urrrggghhh_ ," from beneath the desk. Everyone looks down to the see the guard start to squirm - immediately Bucky's boot shoots out, hitting his shin on the desk and the guard in the face. The guard stops moving.

"I really hope Sam gets here soon," Natasha sighs. Frankly, so do you - the little jaunt in the closet is much less fun now. Maybe you and Bucky can sneak into the bathroom on the jet. The two of you have done so before. Or, skip the sneaking and just tell everyone not to bother you. Not having a secret relationship anymore has its advantages.

That little daydream helps the minutes to pass. Ignoring Tony giving Clint a hard time about something or another (it's a nice break), you lean your head back against Bucky's chest. He kisses the top of your head, but says nothing. Since Super-Hearing-Steve is less than a millimeter away, even if he  _is_ trying to ignore you and Bucky being touchy-feely.

It's probably about twenty degrees warmer in the closet than it had been when you and Bucky had snuck in. Steve is sweating - you can feel prickles of heat across your own skin, and your back pressed to Bucky is definitely damp. From him, or you. Doesn't really matter. Natasha is fanning herself with a hand. Which probably isn't helping much.

"He's back in the building," Stark reports suddenly.

"Finally," Clint moans. Your fingers tighten on Bucky's. The metal is cool, at least.

"Air's clean," Tony adds.

Then a rushing of air from somewhere above - the vents, probably - of the noxious gas being cleared out. In the closet, the air is just as stale as it was before, but a moment later there's a pounding knock on the door. Stark squeezes into you so it can swing open - you're pushed further back into Bucky (no complaints), and finally a breath of fresh air as Sam's head, covered in a gas mask, pokes in.

"Oh, boy," comes Sam's tinny voice. "I missed a good time, didn't I?"

"No, it was awful," Clint says, stomping out. Nat hopes down lithely from the desk.

"Could've been better," she says. "But not with you stuck in there too."

"Thanks…" Sam's eye roll can be seen through the helmet, though he really doesn't seem offended at all.

Tony is out next, talking to Jarvis about looking for more guards anywhere in the building to 'take care of', and finally Steve leaves, talking to Sam as if he hadn't just spend the last hour pushed up against you and Bucky. Poor Steve.

Bucky lets out a long breath. "Next time you say we have enough time to get a little frisky before we need to head out, I'm going to remember this specifically."

"Oh, come on," you say lightly, peeling yourself from him as you turn around with a smile. "One interrupted mid-mission makeout out of what? Two dozen or more? And it wasn't the kissing that was bad."

Bucky's lips twist into a lopsided smile. "Wasn't bad at all, babe."

"In fact - " you glance over shoulder - Steve and Sam are still chatting, walking down the hallway. Sam has taken off his mask. You kick your foot backwards, and the door clangs shut again before turning to Bucky with a smirk. "Where were we?"


	19. The Death of Agent 28 (part one of four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra sets in motion a plan with you at the center. Bucky helps in an unexpected way, Dr. Banner gets a new project for a thesis, and you face your own mortality.

Everything in Avengers Tower is quiet.

Snores or slowed breathing from each of the residents fill their rooms. Natasha shifts restlessly; a television plays to a sleeping Clint; Sam's diffuser puffs and streams; Steve's clock ticks closer to four a.m.; and Tony's watch beeps.

Your eyes pop open.

It's a deranged smile that curls your lips; after a moment of listening and hearing nothing to indicate anyone is awake, especially the out-cold Bucky beside you, you throw back the blankets and swing your legs out of bed. The floor is cold under your feet, but you don't care.

Silent footsteps to the terrace, and slowly you slide open the glass door. Immediately the distant honks and screeches of New York City below filter in, and Bucky sighs and turns over. Your heart is beating too fast.

The night air is...nothing. It's not hot, it's not cold. It just is. A few steps take you to the metal railing of the balcony, and the lights of the city like a sky full of stars seem to press up against you. Spreading your hands on the top of the railing, you tilt your head to the side - and lift a foot to mount the railing.

It's like a dream. The flashing lights below, the inky blackness above; the lazy wind fluttering your pajamas around you. The giddy smile hasn't left your face, and you spread your arms outward as if to embrace New York.

And you fall.

* * *

Bucky jolts awake. Shivering, he realizes that a dim light has been turned on in his bedroom, turning everything an eerie blue. What had woken him?

"Sergeant Barnes," FRIDAY's voice says calmly. "Agent 28 has left the building."

Lifting himself onto an elbow with a groan, Bucky rubs his eyes with the heel of his flesh hand. Then feels the bed beside him as he blinks blearily in confusion - barely warm. He shivers. The door to the terrace is open - what on earth?

"Did she tell you where she was going?" he mumbles back.

"No, sir." Silence. "Would you like me to wake the rest of the team?"

"What? Why?"

A flickering protection appears over the bed. Bucky frowns, and then his eyes widen at the camera footage of - of  _you_  - standing on the edge of the terrace and -

What the  _hell_.

He scrambles out of bed, tangling himself in the covers in his haste - and falling flat on his face. Heart pounding out of his chest, Bucky grasps onto the glass door, taking two steps to the edge of the railing to peer over.

Nothing. Just cars, far below.

"Sergeant, if I may offer some information - " FRIDAY starts to say, but Bucky is barely listening. The rush of his own blood is dampening all sound, as he stares in horror, uncomprehending - was this a new nightmare?

"She did not fall to the ground, sir. She was caught."

It takes Bucky a moment to catch up. "C - caught?"

"Yes, sir."

He whirls around, stalking back inside on trembling legs as the scene FRIDAY shows him changes. Your descent - a graceful freefall - but then twenty floors down you...you disappear. The scene flickers.

"There are traces of energy in the vicinity. It was some sort of jet; I'm sure Mr. Stark could explain it if you wish me to wake him."

"K - kidnapped?" Bucky tries. His voice is shaking. His skin is cold everywhere - he must be going into shock. Damn.

"No one has been in the Tower tonight to coerce her, sir."

A deep breath. It doesn't slow down his heart rate in the slightest. "Wake up Tony, FRIDAY."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Head limp in his hands, Bucky keeps his eyes squeezed shut as the arguing goes on around him. It's barely past dawn, but the last hour or so has been so convoluted with people and questions and theories that it had finally disintegrated into Natasha clocking Clint upside the head.

"I'm gonna stop giving you my best agents," Fury is saying to Stark now. They're at the front of the briefing room, but Bucky doesn't care - he just can't turn his ears off. "Romanoff and Barton have up and quit, and now 28 is jumping off the roof of your building? The Avengers are a waste of my agents."

"I can't take credit for all that," Tony is protesting, anger coloring his tone. "In fact, I told Barton specifically to stay with SHIELD."

"Because you didn't want Fury coming after you," Clint chimes in.

"Be that as it may - " Tony starts to say, but a running and barging through the briefing room door cuts him off. The room is much quieter with this intrusion, but Bucky still doesn't look up. He can't. He recognizes Dr. Banner's rapid breathing, anyway.

"The strangest thing just happened," Banner says, gasping for breath. "I was in my lab putting away some samples and remember the blood I drew from 28 after she was shot with that Hydra virus a couple months ago? It was going  _crazy_. So I pulled it out to look under a microscope - oh my gosh, you guys  _have_  to look at this."

Silence. "Well, throw it up on the screen," Tony deadpans.

"Oh - oh, right."

A swoosh of air past Bucky as Dr. Banner moves to the front of the room, and then an elbow digs into his side.

"Chin up, Barnes," Natasha hisses. "Maybe Bruce has something. Stay with us."

Wrenching his fingers painfully through his hair, Bucky lifts his head with a frown, blinking at the bright lights above. The tension in the room is far more palpable when he's looking; Steve is stiff by the door, Sam's smile is absent as he stares at the table, and even Clint, though drinking coffee with two empty mugs by his elbow, looks alert. Bucky drags his eyes to the front.

A projection flickers, and then Banner fumbles with a device. The picture changes.

"What the  _crap_?" Sam blurts.

"Ew," says Natasha.

"Ah," Tony says.

Bucky squints. Wiggling little things - blood cells? Platelets? It's been a long time since he took biology. But he knows enough that something's wrong. Unless everyone nowadays has little silver gears in their blood.

"After we combatted the virus 28 had in her bloodstream, I checked to make sure there was nothing left, and I swear, at the time her blood was completely normal," Banner explains. "But something woke up these - what would you call them, Tony?"

Tony shrugs. "Microbots."

"Right. Something must have triggered the microbots to wake up. Rings some alarms, doesn't it? Where is she? I want to - "

"What sort of effects could these microbots have?" Steve interrupts.

Banner blinks. "Based on what we know of who developed the virus? Pain. Nightmares. Psychological torture. Mind control."

"Mind control?" Bucky speaks for the first time, his voice rough.

"Yeah - I mean, has she been acting strange lately? Done anything out of character?"

Awkward silence. So Banner hadn't gotten the memo. A few uncomfortable gazes are exchanged, and Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Like, jumping off a 46th floor balcony?" Tony suggests.

"Yeah, like - wait? She did that?"

"She's not dead, Banner, so don't worry," Natasha says dryly. "She was picked up by an cloaked jet. But mind control explains a lot. Really refutes the '28 has been part of Hydra all along' theory, doesn't it, Mr. Tinfoil Hat?" she snaps across the table to Clint, who colors.

"Just a theory," Clint mutters.

"This reminds me of something," Steve interjects, his brows furrowing as he straightens to pace down beside the table. "Remember that strip joint we busted last May? There were some mind-controlling drugs under the radar there. Do we still have samples? Can we compare?"

"Brilliant idea," Tony says, clapping his hands together. "Banner?"

"Er - yeah, yeah, of course."

"Any other connections anyone wants to make?" Tony asks, as Bruce turns off the projection. The room is darker now, and Bucky can feel several pairs of eyes boring into him. He's gonna have to say something, isn't he? With his stomach twisting in on itself like he's going to barf out all his guts.

"She hasn't been acting strange," Bucky mumbles at last, slinking back in his seat. He can't look at anyone. It's easier that way.

"Were there any other missions where she might have been compromised, Sergeant? You seem to know her best."

Whether that's disapproval in Fury's voice - Bucky doesn't care. Does Fury even know - ? Maybe it doesn't matter. Bucky sighs, thinking back.

The only people that know your name are either in this room or in your hometown. Your family doesn't know of your career - and since you've had them under surveillance, any suspicious activity would have been discovered. They're probably out of this.

If not your name...your face? Could anyone have gotten a photo of you that SHIELD didn't erase? Put two and two together, with the secret agent taking down bad guys with the Avengers? Wanted to go for a non-enhanced weakest link?

A photo. A camera that wasn't hooked up to the internet or any cloud drive…

The  _wedding._

Bucky groans.

"Tell us," Tony says at once.

"The wedding we went to last spring," he sighs. "They had polaroid cameras for the guests to take pictures. We didn't take any - but she could've popped up in some."

"Okay, so we have to assume Hydra targeted 28 for some specific reason," Steve says. "Any ideas on that, anyone?"

"She's a SHIELD agent, Steve," Natasha points out. "That's reason enough. And she works with us. She's dealt them plenty of blows in the last few years."

"So why did they kidnap her?" Sam asks. "And where is she?"

But to that - no one has an answer.

* * *

Voices are coming from far away. There's an ache in your neck, which you roll to the side with a moan that feels like razor blades in your throat. Your head is pounding, and as you shift, something harsh rubs against the sensitive skin of your wrists. The edges of your brain feel fuzzy. Frayed. Wincing, you try to force yourself to think harder.

"She still controlled?"

"Should be, sir," replies a different voice. This one bored.

"And the bots?"

"Still running. They've got about fourteen hours of life yet before they'll need to be recharged."

"Good, good." Some footsteps break through your haze, coming nearer. "It worked better than I expected. Be sure to thank Coates for his information."

"Yes, sir."

Some silence. Easier to focus, to take stock of your surroundings. No good in letting them know your strength is coming back, you keep your eyes closed, using your other senses instead. The air is cold, and your feet are bare. The air stinks of metal and mold. As for how you got there - well, your memory isn't obliging. The last clear thing in your mind is...Bucky. Of course. He'd kissed you goodnight, and suggested some sparring in the morning. So how'd you end up here?

Ragged breathing comes close, and instinctively you roll your head the other way, gagging.

"I've been looking for you for a  _long_  time," the first voice says softly.

"If you wanted a date so bad, you could've called," you mutter.

"How are you feeling, Agent?"

You think for a moment, peeking open an eye. A shaft of light blinds you, but the peek is enough. Two men - only one of whom looks like a threat. A large room, no visible doors. You scrunch your nose. "I could use some coffee, scissors, a gun, and maybe a donut - but otherwise? Not bad."

Pause. "Were the others this snarky when they were under?" the first voice asks, hushed.

"Er - sometimes, sir."

"Hmm. Agent, do you know why you're here?"

"You wanted a private poetry reading? I promise my fee isn't  _that_  bad; a kidnapping is a bit extreme - "

"Shut up," the first voice snaps. "Don't talk again. You've been dealing me some severe losses lately, Agent. You and the Avengers. I'm done with it. But I figure if you're out of the picture, that's not enough, is it?"

"Is it?" you mumble back. Your heart rate is increasing - not in panic - but with strength as feeling starts to come back into your arms and legs. That's good. Your mind is less fuzzy, anyway. But they can't know.

"So, my chemical research division has been working hard. We got some mind-altering microbots in your system. You're ours, now. Would be a shame to kill such a talented agent, right, Juan?"

"Right, sir."

"You're gonna destroy the Avengers for us. Then, poof! Blame misdirected."

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. The handcuffs around your wrists feel feel flimsy. "Monologuing evil plans is a bad idea, buster," you tell him. "Now I know what you're up to."

He chuckles. "And what can you do about it?"

"I'll figure out something. You said Ricky Coates is in on this?"

"From prison, yes. As soon as you and your buddies are taken care of, I'll get him out of jail. I've been missing my arms smuggling ventures. He may be ugly, but he's good at what he does."

"Well, gee," you sigh again. "You've gone through a lot of effort to go through to get one lone agent. Good job. I admire your efforts and dedication."

Silence.

"How are those bots?" the first man asks the second in a hiss.

"Reading normal, sir."

"Can't even take a compliment," you say woefully.

"I'm done here," the first man grumbles. Footsteps walk away - well, stomp, more like, and you're left alone in the metal room. But not before the bright light above is dimmed to red, and the clanging of a metal door booms throughout the room, followed by several clicking locks.

Huh. If you were totally with it, you'd guess that the door is vibranium.

Smuggling, eh? Several missions over the last couple years are making a lot more sense now.

Blinking at the dirty floor, your eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. Absurdly quickly. In fact, soon it seems just as bright in the room as when the full lights had been on. How unusual. So you can see in the dark now? Maybe this virus they gave you has some side effects. That would be helpful.

Weirdly, your wrists are hurting less, too. And the headache is already gone. No nausea - though that might be expected in such a situation, all things considered. In fact, you feel pretty great.

Suddenly voices are coming from somewhere. From beyond the door? The wall? You tilt your head to the side, ears perking.

_"Do you have the supplies to send her back with?"_

_"Two noxious bombs - improved from when they diverted the effects in a closed vent area. Vibranium N-35s. A potato bomb."_

Again with the potato bomb? You roll your eyes.

_"Alright. Monitor her until the bots need recharging; then boost 'em, give her instructions, and send her on her way."_

_"Yes, sir."_

Like  _that's_ gonna work. To get you to terrorize Avengers Tower, or that Stark can't deal with a potato bomb. Those smugglers - idiots. Next time they come in, they're toast.

You take a breath, flexing your fingers. The rope they'd tied you with falls apart with a tug. And you wait.

* * *

Bucky can't sleep.

Two days, it's been. Hasn't sleep since FRIDAY woke him up after your fall - or jump, whatever is was. He hates seeing the constant worry in Steve's eyes, the concern in Natasha's voice - it doesn't matter. He'd finally escaped their overwhelming sympathy; instead, he's standing on his terrace at midnight, right at the point you'd fallen - willingly or by mind control or some other coercion - and even with only a forced sandwich in his stomach, he still feels like barfing all over New York City.

How had this happened?

"Sergeant Barnes, a phone call for you." FRIDAY's soft voice sounds on the terrace.

"Take a message."

"Sir, it's Agent 28."

He jerks upright. Phone. You? Phone. Where is it? He stumbles back into the bedroom, searching wildly in the strewn bedcovers, on the nightstand, in a drawer -

It's across the room next to the closet, screen bright. Bucky dives for it. Unknown number. Doesn't matter. FRIDAY already confirmed it's you.

"Babe? Babe, is that you?"

"Bucky." A sigh - a happy sigh. Oh, your  _voice_. Nags of despair and hope make Bucky feel as though his stomach has dropped to his feet. He curls into a sitting position, back to the wall as a wave of relief seeps through his body like a drug.

"You okay?" he asks roughly.

"Oh, sure!" you chirp. "I mean, I was kidnapped, they tried to control me and use me for domestic terrorism, that sort of thing. But I'm fine. Their tech sucks - barely worked at all. I fought my way outta there with only two metal legs of a chair - can you believe that? Clint's gonna be jealous. Can you send a jet to me?"

Your babbling brings a smile to Bucky's face - the first smile for two days, and he closes his eyes briefly. "Yeah - yeah, I'll come get you. Can I get your coordinates?"

"FRIDAY will have them."

FRIDAY's voice chimes in. "I have her coordinates, Sergeant. Would you like me to prepare a jet?"

"Yes, please." Bucky inhales deeply. "Babe, are you sure you're okay? What happened?"

"It's just some microtech Hydra developed for mind control," you say dismissively. "Apparently it's in my blood, so - "

"Yeah, Banner showed us a sample he took while you were fighting off that virus. Some foreign things - they were going crazy."

Your chuckle makes his heart skip a beat. "Wasn't so bad, though. There were side effects. I broke a guy's leg today with my bare hands. Never done that before - it was pretty cool."

"What is this, a field trip?" Bucky snarks. "How are you so upbeat? When FRIDAY told me you jumped off the building, I thought - I thought you were - " His throat closes over. There's a soft sigh in his ear.

"So the mind control worked a bit," you confess. "I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to frighten you. You know how - how it goes."

"Yeah. I know."

"Sergeant Barnes, the jet is ready - "

Bucky surges to his feet. He needs a tac vest. Guns. Boots. Everything. "I'm gonna come get you, ok babe?"

"Thanks, Buck. Can you bring me some clothes, too?"

"Of course. Love you."

"Love you, too. See you soon."

_It's gonna be ok. It's gonna be ok._

* * *

Lying back on the examination table, you shoot Bucky a wink across the room. He's standing stiffly with quite the glower on his face - for Dr. Banner, not for you - but you can't help be amused. Bucky has been a complete mother hen since picking you up somewhere in Honduras four hours earlier. Just straddling the line between endearing and exasperating.

"You should be resting," he states loudly.

"I feel fine, Bucky," you insist. "Really. And Dr. Banner will get better samples and readings now than later. It's fine."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Banner says, a little irritably. It's clear he doesn't appreciate Bucky hovering. You don't blame him - but you also don't want to send Bucky away, either.

The blood draw barely stings. Your blood looks normal, too - at least to you. Saliva test, some brain activity being scooted out on a tablet. It takes less than a half hour, though it feel much longer with Bucky tapping his foot impatiently.

"FRIDAY, compile these results and make me some graphs," Banner says absently, spinning on his stool back to a table. He dips into a vial of blood to smear across a glass plate, sticking it under a microscope. You take a deep breath - the computer monitoring your heart rate seems to be beeping awfully fast - whatever that's about. Because you don't feel like your heart's going 120 BPM. Feels like 60.

"Whoa." The softest breath is exhaled from Banner. Careful not to dislodge any wires, you poke up your head.

"What is it?"

"This is  _amazing._  FRIDAY, project please. And send for Stark. And Steve."

Tony and Steve? What for? You don't care - the projection beaming across the room draws your attention. Blinking in surprise, your lips part slightly.

"Those microbots again," Bucky says after a startled moment. He's staring, too. "But what - "

"They're being attacked," Dr. Banner clarifies. "But not by white blood cells."

All you see are squiggles. The red blood cells you recognize - the microbots are silver and square, fluttering madly as different cells - red, but lumpy and enormous - pursue them. As you watch, one of the massive red cells consumes a microbot. One less.

"The bad guys didn't say anything about anyone fighting off the microbots," you muse.

Banner chuckles, pulling off his glasses to wipe his shining brow. "I don't think anyone else could. Where's Tony?"

"On his way, sir."

Dr. Banner returns to your side, picking up the tablet recording your vitals. His eyes bug out of his head. "Unprecedented," he murmurs, as if to himself. "I'm gonna track every moment of this; this is groundbreaking, this is spectacular, this is - "

"This is my girlfriend," Bucky snaps, interrupting at last as he strides over to your side, facing down Banner across the examination table. "You're not experimenting on her, no matter how  _unprecedented_  this is."

"Don't be silly, Bucky," you admonish. "He just wants to find out the scientific reason for how cool I am. I don't blame him."

"Don't joke - "

The doors to the lab slide open; Tony first, followed quickly by Steve. And Natasha and Clint and Sam - because they're certainly not going to miss a party.

"What's this?" Tony wastes no time asking, striding right up to the projection to study closely.

"Blood sample I took from Agent 28 ten minutes ago," Banner explains. "Look familiar?"

Silence. Steve's brow furrows. No one looks like they know what's going on - except Banner, who's grinning as he adds, "FRIDAY, pull up the recorded sample I took of Cap's blood when he was fighting off tetanus."

A second projection pings up. Except for the viruses, there's a remarkable similarity - Steve's blood cells are lumpy and huge, too.

"Oh, and normal cells fighting a virus, too. Just for fun."

This third picture is remarkably normal. Normal cells, though the white blood cells are much slower than yours and Steve's.

"Have you been taking super serum, Agent?" Sam jokes.

"Not unless someone's been spiking my cereal," you shoot back. Then, with Bucky's help, you gingerly swing your legs over to sit on the examination table. Blood rushes to your head - but the dizziness passes quickly. Everything is crystal clear around you. Too clear.

"Could they have added something when they gave her the virus?" Steve asks, crossing his arms.

"No - they wouldn't have. Even Hydra's not that stupid," Natasha points out.

"Do any of you remember that the blood sample I took when she was first shot didn't have the enhanced cells?" Banner says. "The change must have happened since then."

"Oh, right," Tony says slowly. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he swivels slightly to stare beadily in your direction. Then to Bucky behind you. You can practically see his wheels turning. "You and Barnes been indulging in blood play?" he asks.

"Ew," says Clint.

"No," you tell him, with Bucky's  _yuck_  ringing in your ears.

"Can any traits be passed through - say, saliva?" Tony asks Banner next, who shrugs.

"Doubt it. Otherwise she would've been enhanced long ago, right? And Sharon, too? Not to mention sharing cups and straws - I don't think the serum works quite like mono."

Steve's ears turn red, and you grin. Tony taps his chin, still in thought.

"Getting it yet?" Banner asks. His grin is nearly frightening. "Here - Steve - " He gestures to Steve, who starts. And he points to you. "Go have a listen."

Steve balks. "A listen?"

"Yes, a listen. Or I'll have to drag out more equipment and I don't wanna do that. Everyone, quiet!"

Clint's mutterings to Natasha cut off.

With a shrug, Steve walks over to you. Lifting a brow, you watch as he mouths,  _Sorry_ , to Bucky behind you, and then lowers his head. Not quite touching your chest, and clearly uncomfortable.

"Heartbeat is faster than normal," Steve reports.

"And?" Banner prompts. Steve's expression pinches as the room goes absolutely silent, apart from the beep-beeps of various machinery. Then his head tilts slightly, and his mouth falls open.

"Oh," he says faintly, after a moment.

"Was I right?" Banner asks, rubbing his hands together.

"Er - yeah, if that's what your theory was."

"No way," Tony says slowly. "No-frigging-way."

"FRIDAY, pull up Agent 28's medical records."

Restlessly you tap your fingers on the edge of the table as Steve steps away. His eyes are wide, flickering towards Bucky. Some silent exchange must be passed, because Bucky steps around the table to face you. Uncertainty rims his eyes, and you bite your lip.

And just as Steve had done, Bucky lowers his head to your middle. Tucking some stray hair behind his ear, he frowns for a moment, before -

You wince. "I was going to tell you," you try.

Banner glances over. "You  _knew_?"

"Of course I knew," you shoot back, aware of Bucky's blue eyes boring into your face as he wets his lips, and straightens. "I only found out like, four days ago. I...was going to wait to tell you on your birthday. Next week."

Bucky blinks down at you. Lost for words, apparently. But his flesh hand feels yours out on the table, squeezing tightly.

"But it looks like you saved me from mind control," you add with a smile, and finally, Bucky gives a huff of laughter. It's as if the tension in the room has been broken, and he wraps you in a hug so tightly that you start to see stars, and Sam starts to complain.

"Save it for later, you guys."

Banner is babbling. "It explains everything - the higher temperature - the engorged cells - the increased heart rate. This is seriously unprecedented; we have no record of any pregnancies involving super-serum. That she's showing symptoms of enhancement herself? To carry enhanced fetuses? Will the effects last? How enhanced will the offspring be? This is pioneering work, Tony."

"Yeah, if you want to wake up in the middle of the night with Barnes standing over you with a knife in each hand," Stark says dryly. "You think he's gonna let you touch her now?"

"No," Bucky says at once.

"It's fine, Bruce," you contradict. "I don't mind. FRIDAY, did you log the coordinates of where I was held? I'm itching to get back. There's a smuggling ring; Tony - Coates was in on it, and the terror cell in Stockholm and the potato bomb and the vibranium we've been seeing in Hydra facilities - "

"We'll work on that," Tony assures you, a little startled. "You don't have to worry about it."

"Um - " you blink. "They wanted  _me_. They targeted  _me_. To get to all of  _you_. I'm gonna worry about it. They need to go."

"We're not disagreeing with that, 28," Steve says soothingly. "But you've just had a harrowing experience - "

"I'm not harrowed," you interrupt. "I'm operating on your level now, Stevie. I feel  _great_. I could probably throw you across the room right now, thanks to Bucky's super-sperm - "

"Ugh!" Sam groans. "I never want to hear that phrase  _again_."

" - and I haven't even felt nauseous," you conclude. "Really - you don't want to fight an enhanced pregnant lady. I'm gonna be milking this for all it's worth, you guys. Don't cross me. Twelve hours ago I fought off 22 Hydra agents in my pajamas."

Maybe the grime leftover on your face from your kidnapping is making you a little more frightening. Maybe it's that the examination table cracked underneath your grip. Maybe it's Bucky, glaring around and looking like he's ready to strangle someone. But no one responds for an awkward moment.

"Ok," Tony says at last. Banner is looking at his notes, and Steve and Natasha swap a grimace.

"Will you rest yet?" Bucky murmurs to you. "We can talk about this later."

His nose is pressed close to your ear - you shiver, goosebumps of pleasure breaking out across your skin. Even from such a simple touch. Because you haven't seen him in two days? Because you missed him? Or because your sensitivity to things like touch and smell and sounds is rapidly increasing?

"Sure. If Banner's done with me."

Fortunately, Dr. Banner nods. "Done for now, 28."


	20. The Death of Agent 28 (part two of four)

The next morning there's no sunrise behind blankets of overcast clouds hanging low over the city. But that suits you - it means  _you_  don't have to get up, either. Because who would want to, with Bucky curled up so close with his ear pressed to your belly?

"You're so much warmer than usual," he muses. "It's crazy. You're like me now."

"Right. I could probably put my fist through a concrete wall, if I wanted," you tease.

"You wanna?"

"Not yet. Maybe next time Sam or Clint try to make fun of me. Just to show them who's in charge around here."

Bucky chortles as you continue to run your fingers through his hair. The peaceful shroud of the moment is like the fog outside - but warm and comforting. The bunker you'd been held in in Honduras is far away. Barely even matters. Only the here, and now.

"You know there's more than one heartbeat in there, right?" Bucky murmurs after a while. You smile at the ceiling.

"I'm not surprised. Super sperm, and all."

Bucky laughs, his metal fingers tracing little circles on the inside of your thigh.

"How many?" you ask boldly.

"Um - two at least. I mean, the little beats are  _so_ fast and they're overlapping like crazy. I bet Banner would find out for you, if you like."

"Nah. I like to be surprised."

"Surprised? You?" Bucky lifts his head, his eyes glittering up at you as he rests his chin on your ribs. "Since when, babe?"

"Since I learned that some surprises can be good," you retort, pinching his chin as he grins. The look in his gaze softens slightly, but his lips stay curled as he studies your face intently. "Looking for something?" you tease lightly.

"Yeah. Just...for the future, I guess."

"Mmm. Wanna talk about how we're gonna bust up the smuggling ring?"

"Not really."

"You're no fun," you sigh.

"And you can't go."

You lift a brow. "Bucky…"

"You shouldn't go," he clarifies, though there's a definite edge to his voice. "And I don't say that because I think you're not capable - because you  _are_  - but...it's such an unnecessary risk - "

"I've taken risks before, Bucky."

"I know. You're so amazing," he says, his eyes darkening a shade. "But it's ok for you to step back and let us take care of this."

"But I don't need to."

"But you don't  _have_  to go, either." In his urgency, Bucky props himself on an elbow at your side, eyes so much closer now, better able to coerce you. "No one doubts you, babe. You don't have to prove yourself."

"I'm…" Your head tilts to the side, a bare frown pinching your brows. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm going to do my job. Which has nothing to do with proving anything - you do remember that I work alongside the Avengers and get none of the credit? I've been putting bad guys in prison for years, and none of them even know my code name. It's not about proving myself."

"You don't have to see this mission through," Bucky tries again.

"I'm going to," you snap back. "You're not my boss, Bucky. Unless Fury orders me off, I'm going. Which he won't, because he's not an idiot - I know where we're going, I know the building. I'll be much more help out there than sitting here with my feet propped up."

"So I  _am_  an idiot," Bucky says, and his voice is cold. A shattering moment that his gaze connects with yours - and then he rolls over and climbs out of the bed to stalk away.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" You huff in indignation. He's apparently determined to misunderstand.

"Yeah, whatever." Digging around in a drawer, Bucky tugs on a shirt and shorts, hair sticking to his head. "'S my fault for trying to protect ya, you know? Everytime I try, you bite my head off - "

"Because you don't need to worry that much about me," you argue. The bed is much less welcoming now, and you leap out to search out your own clothes. "I can take care of myself. I'm not with you because you protect me - Bucky, I love you, and that's a completely different matter. "

"Different?" His head swivels back to you, his eyes glittering darkly. "Oh, so I'm supposed to love you and not protect you? Let you jump off a cliff if you want? Or a building?"

"Ha, ha," you say sardonically, rolling your eyes as you tug on a bathrobe.

"I can't love you without wanting to protect you," Bucky growls. "Asking me to is like...it's like just having sex without any feelings. It's not right. I can't do it."

"Then how about  _you_  stay home while I finish this mission and you can pout to your heart's content," you snap. Glowering, Bucky turns on his heel, and stomps to the door. Over his shoulder he shoots back,

"Maybe I will. Because the great Agent 28 can do everything by herself."

"And the great Winter Soldier is too stubborn to accept that he can't have the entire world on his shoulders - "

The door opens, and slams shut. Your words are cut off, and the trembling shake of your beating-too-fast heart is making your breath catch. Tears burn your eyes, and your hand flies to your mouth to muffle a choked sob. What is  _happening_? Is this the serum? The hormones?

There have been no footsteps moving away. Beyond the door, you can hear Bucky's breathing - ragged, and sighing. Oh,  _thank you super hearing_  - you rush to the door, putting your hand on the handle. At the same moment he bursts back through, eyes wild and red, and without a word he crashes into you with an enormous hug, and you cling to him as tears fall onto his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, babe," he mutters into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I don't know - "

"No, Bucky, it's not your fault," you snivel. "It's me. I think my hormones are amplified."

He chortles, kicking the door shut again. Then he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your nose. A steadying breath, and then you can meet his eyes again as he cups your face in his hands.

"I can't stop you," Bucky murmurs, the slightest smile lifting his lips. "I know that. But I can be there with you, to protect you when push comes to shove and you really need me. You'll never shake me, babe."

"I don't want to," you whisper back. "I shouldn't have been so stubborn. I know you're just trying to look out for me."

His voice is rumbly, low. "Gotta take care of my girl." His lips inch towards yours as you speak, and finally you let your eyes flutter shut to feel the full potency of his kiss. The disagreement is lost in the roving hands, desperate and eager to make amends.

Your robe falls to the ground as his fingers press eagerly into the flesh of your hips. A moan forms in your throat, and Bucky bites down on your lip. He pushes himself flush against you - the evidence of his arousal very much in evidence - and your breath is coming in short gasps as your back hits the wall and you're dragged up so your legs wrap around his waist. Mindlessly you rip his shirt over his head before fastening your lips to his neck, where some of your frustration comes out as bright purple bruises - Bucky grunts.

"You're stronger now, don't forget," he mutters, wrenching down his shorts with one hand. "Please be careful with me."

You laugh, the sound throaty and hoarse as you lean your head against the wall, letting your eyes close in bliss. "Well, you don't have to be too gentle with me. I'm not gonna break, you know."

"Nah. But the wall will."

Biting your lip, you open your eyes to meet Bucky's - his gaze is devouring, as he maneuvers you to align with his hips. It only takes a single thrust and sparks burst across your body in sensual bursts of pleasure. Fireworks dance on the back of your eyelids as your legs clench around his waist, trying to pull him closer. Unable to stop yourself, you let loose a long, sighing moan, your arms tightening around his neck as he tries to breath in.

"What the hell?" he chokes. "Did you finish? Feels like you did."

"I couldn't help it," you whimper.

A startled pause. And then Bucky starts to laugh - of course. And while your face is warm, you can't be embarrassed. Without pulling out, he hoists you more securely on his hips and away from the wall, carrying you to the bed as you bury your face in the musky scent of his neck.

"Alright, Miss Super-Sensitive," he murmurs into your ear as he lays you back on the pillows. The softness engulfs you, and you sigh again. "Now you get to know how I feel when ya tease me. Extra sensitivity and all."

"You don't have to tease to prove a point." You peek open an eye to glare. "Come on. I'm ready for round two."

"Round two? What's that? I get a real thrust in this time?" Bucky teases. "We gonna be here all day, babe?"

"Don't  _tempt_ me, Barnes." Digging a heel into his bum, you bring him closer - his eyes darken as he lowers himself into your embrace. " _Ah_. See? That wasn't so hard."

He huffs a chuckle, and any thought of teasing is forgotten.

The concession you do make - after a much more mature conversation takes place regarding your role on this upcoming mission - is that you allow Dr. Banner to continue to monitor the pregnancy, and if he discovers even a hint of danger - you must agree to follow doctor's orders. But it's not surprising to you that he finds no hint of danger.

"Like I said, it's gonna be fine," you assure Bucky, as Banner is studying your charts at a desk, while a monitor records your vitals in a plush chair nearby. "If I'm carrying super-babies - I gotta be super, too. Or else they'd kick themselves right out of my tummy."

"Thanks for that image," Bucky deadpans. His flesh hand is on your shoulder, squeezing slightly. "I know you're not worried even a little bit, so how about you let me worry for you? Hmm?"

"Hmm - nah."

"Everything looks spick and span," Dr. Banner announces, swiveling back 'round. "I've been wondering if the rate of pregnancy will increase with the genetic enhancements - but it appears to be proceeding normally. How fascinating."

"What a relief," Bucky mutters.

"Will I be alright to go on this mission?" you ask, ignoring Bucky.

"Sure. Just...don't jump off anything and don't get punched in the gut. The serum is obviously protecting you to some extent, but don't test it, yeah?"

"I won't," you promise.

"Oh, sure - she listens to  _you_ ," Bucky says sardonically to Dr. Banner, who blanches. Banner opens his mouth to speak, but since Bucky's just being grumpy, you cut in,

"Do you know if they're twins, Dr. Banner? Or more?"

"Oh! I thought you knew." Banner hits some buttons on his tablet, and a squiggling image is projected. You squint at it for a moment but thankfully Banner takes pity. He points and says, "Two. One here. One here."

"Nice," you say with a grin.

"Oh boy," Bucky says faintly.

"Not 'oh boy.' Maybe they're girls," you tease, nudging him with an elbow. He peeks one beady eye down to glare at you.

"Don't you even start, babe. Like I need two more of you." But his eyes are sparkling; you know he's not serious.

"Oh, ha, ha. You'd be so lucky."

Red-faced, Dr. Banner quickly unhooks you from the monitor, and you're free to go - on the mission, too. There's a sense of relief with that - the team will have your knowledge of the bunker, and that urge to finish what had been started in your name will finally be satisfied.  _Then_  you can take a step back, and Bucky will be pleased.

Mission Day is bright and sunny. You're the last one on the jet - finishing up a phone call with Director Fury - and when you step on in full gear, Clint only complains about your tardiness a little bit. Then the gangway is lifted.

"Sorry," you say to everyone, taking an empty seat beside Bucky to strap on your buckle. He eyes you suspiciously, but says nothing. The usual crease from your smile isn't there. But when you glance up at him, you grin. "Fury made me promise I would shoot out any cameras in the facility."

"It took twenty minutes for him to tell you that?"

"Eh - mostly." You don't clarify, and the engines of the jet rumble to life. Bucky closes his eyes - he's not exactly a fan of takeoff or landing - but he does peek over at you as your hands find his on his lap, squeezing tightly. You wink, and he smiles back.

"I'm feeling pizza for dinner, how about you guys?" Tony's gaze is fastened on his phone, typing quickly.

"How about something healthy for once?" Natasha asks. "Some of us who aren't enhanced are gonna end up with heart disease if you keep ordering pizza all the time."

"Don't care," Clint calls from the pilot's seat.

"Don't care," says Sam, arms folded.

"Someone should care," Steve says. "I agree with Nat, Tony. If you aren't gonna order something healthy, I'll cook."

"On second thought," Natasha muses.

"No! No, no, no," Stark says quickly, panic filling his features as he holds out a hand in surrender. "I'll get - hummus or something. Don't worry about it, Steve."

Your giggle joins the others in the cabin of the jet. Steve is looking distinctly miffed, but he's perfectly aware of the team's trepidation towards his cooking, and he doesn't mind it one bit. Bucky can recall more than one occasion in the last century of choking down some experimental supper - he's glad it's not just him, anymore.

"No opinion from the pregnant lady?" Stark asks, casting a look towards you.

"Hmm? What? For dinner?" You sit up straighter, as if you'd been distracted. "Nah, whatever you guys want."

"No cravings?" Natasha wonders curiously.

"Well - I've been really thirsty. That's about it."

"Are your taste buds super sensitive?" Steve asks with an interested glint in his eye.

"Um," you think for a moment. "I guess they're a bit more sensitive than they used to be."

"Man, after I got the serum, eating was like...an orgasmic experience," Steve says, his eyes misting over a bit as Natasha snorts. "All new flavors. New combinations."

"That's because you couldn't taste for crap to begin with," Bucky points out. "Remember when you made your ma breakfast in bed and she puked it up because it was so bad?"

Laughter rings out - Steve's face turns red from his collar to his ears, and opening his mouth in indignity he protests, "I was like, seven years old, Buck. I didn't know!"

"If you could've tasted it, you woulda known," Bucky says wisely.

"Everyday, we learn more rich details of the life of Captain America," Stark says with a sigh, a smile stealing over his features as he leans his head back. "I'm so glad Bucky lives at the Tower."

"Good to know I'm wanted," Bucky retorts. Your fingers tighten on his hand, and he huffs in disgruntlement.

"And how you do earn your keep, Tony?" you ask him. "I haven't heard any good anecdotes about Rhodey lately."

Tony's eyes widen. "I've been failing." And he launches into a story so overly-detailed and convoluted that Bucky loses track of what's going on within ten seconds. Peeking over at you, he sees the mischief in your eyes as you contain your laughter.

" - and  _then_  the chicken just ripped the pages out of the book and went squawking into the night, we had to - "

The story lasts all the way to Honduras.

Bucky is, to no surprise, a little tense when the team is finally entering the facility. It's hot and sticky, and even the thudding urge to revenge himself on these people that kidnapped you - it's with irritation that he lifts his rifle to his shoulder, right behind Steve for an initial sweep.

"The security room is top floor," you'd told them - and Bucky eyes you as you break off from the group to the left in search of a staircase. The team would be clearing out people to be arrested (the local police has already been notified), and your mission was to shut down the building and wipe their tech. After salvaging anything useful, of course.

It's not a large building. Clint's in the basement, Natasha and Sam clear out the bottom floor, Steve and Bucky the second, and Tony finishes tidying things on the roof. Fifteen minutes, and over the coms congratulations are exchanged.

"Police are three minutes out," Stark reports. "28, you almost done? I'd like to get out of here before we get asked too many questions."

"Almost done," your voice says calmly. "Um - which one of you aggravated the guy in charge? There seems to be a self-destruct feature that just turned itself on."

Steve swears.

"How much time is left?" Tony asks briskly.

"Three minutes."

"Everyone, OUT."

"Already on it," Natasha reports breathlessly.

Side by side Steve and Bucky run towards the nearest exit - Bucky's heart is beating fast, and when he sees that the stairs leading to an emergency door, he doesn't miss the staircase going up. Steve goes down. Bucky doesn't look back, and starts climbing.

"Bucky - " Steve calls back, warning in his tone.

"Gotta get 28," Bucky snaps.

"Time's ticking, Barnes," Tony reminds him in his ear. Like he'd forget.

The bodies of two security guards block the way into the room - Bucky steps over them, tempted to laugh despite the circumstances. You're crouched over a central server, but look up with a frown when he enters. Then, without warning, the building starts to shake - automatically he puts his hand to the doorframe, sucking in a breath.

"You need to get out," you tell him over the distant groans of metal and shuddering concrete.

"So do you."

"Bucky," you say, voice level. "The doors automatically locked when the countdown started. I've been manually opening them so the team can get out - you need to  _go_."

Bucky slings his rifle on his back, jaw ticking. "Not without you, babe."

"If I leave here, we'll be locked in anyway." Another shake - pitter patters of shattered rocks hit the ground; you stumble, but slam your hand back on the lever. "Bucky,  _go._ "

"Not without you," he repeats stupidly, striding over you haul you to your feet. You pull your arm back, but not angrily.

"Bucky." The calmness in your voice is scarier than the rumbling of the building, than the cracks in the ceiling. He stares, heart pumping fast as he devours the serenity in your gaze, eager to take whatever better solution you're hiding. You always have a way out.

"Bucky," you say again, and your lips curl into a soft smile. "I'm staying. You have to let me go."

"N - no…" Bucky's voice cracks on the word. "No."

"Bucky, please. I can do this. It's my choice."

"No!"

"Bucky - "

"You can't!" His throat is burning as he shouts - he's never raised his voice at you before, but you don't flinch. Only that smile, that sea of tranquility as the ground shakes again. Things are falling from the ceiling - how they don't hit you, or him - he doesn't know. He doesn't care. "I'm gonna protect you," Bucky says, his tongue tripping over the words. "I'm gonna save you, babe - it's us, remember? We gotta be together. There's - there's no me without you anymore."

"Bucky," you repeat, even softer. "You have to let me go."

_"No."_

Exasperation. "You really gonna make me do this, Barnes? Really?"

"No, come with me, we'll figure it out - "

But you're already bending over to pick up a broken section of a pipe that had fallen from the ceiling. Bucky's stomach turns - he's gonna puke, he knows it - but before he can do more than open his mouth in surprise, you swing the pipe directly at his head and it connects with a resonating thud that drops him like a rag doll.

His vision is fuzzy; there's only grey, only the distant thudding of his own heart and cold - cold everywhere. And a pair of boots coming close - your boots - is he still there? A soft hand on his head, and he remembers no more.

The resounding explosion and whoosh of red-hot flames jolts Bucky awake. Panic fills every cell of his body, and his limbs jerk reflexively to find - how the hell? - he's hovering above the jungle, being carried under the arms by Stark. The roaring whoosh of the facility destroying itself perhaps twenty feet away makes his ears ring. The ground looms loser; a canopy of trees before he's dropped the last ten feet to the ground.

As his ears adjust from the deafening noise, he can hear distant footsteps. Bracing himself on all fours, Bucky shakes his head to clear it of noise and the stench of smoke. Then he's being hauled up by Steve.

"We thought you weren't gonna make it out, man," Steve says wildly, searching Bucky's face for injury.

"Wasn't supposed to," Bucky mutters back.

"Where's 28?" Natasha. Out of breath, and looking, for the first time he's ever seen her - terrified. Bucky's tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, and his ears are ringing.

"She - " he tries to say, and lump the size of Antarctica wells up in his throat. His eyes are burning - dust from debris, and a horrific, all-consuming grief is battering in his chest. "She...stayed. To complete the...detonation. To let us out."

Sam's voice cusses. Sam's there? And Tony...Tony's voice is mingling with Natasha's. Suddenly Steve is pulling him into a half-hug, and without thinking Bucky clings to him, uncaring that he's ruining Steve's uniform with snot.

"I was gonna go back for her next," Stark is babbling, something akin to panic coloring his voice. "Honest, I was. But I barely got Barnes out in time - "

Bucky doesn't remember much, after that.

* * *

He's numb. Everywhere, numb.

Lying on his back, on his neatly-made bed in Avengers Tower - the bed he'd made with  _you_  that morning, with your every-morning insistence that the bed be put neatly back together. The bed with your scent still in the sheets, with strands of hair clinging to pillows, with your chapstick and keys and the bowie knife he'd given you for your birthday and collection of clicky pens and half-used notepads. All shoved in the door of the opposite nightstand. The nightstand which he'd moved in himself, after coming clean about seeing each other and you started sleeping at the Tower more and more.

Bucky chews his lip raw, just to feel  _something_ , but it doesn't help - the sting of air on broken, bleeding flesh is nothing. Barely even registers.

You can't be dead. You can't. Not when you'd been riling things up with your usual teasing that morning. Not when you'd written "LUV UR BUTT" in the steam from his shower on the mirror only fifteen hours earlier. Not when you'd been bouncing around, acting like you owned the place because you were pregnant, joking that you were going to get special treatment or you'd use your new strength to throw the couch across the tower -

It's the pregnancy that sends Bucky hurtling to the bathroom, vomiting up what feels like three days worth of bile and bits of forgotten meals. His head is pounding as if someone was taking a sledgehammer to his temples, over and over and over again, until he's slouched on the floor, worn out with only the cold tile of the floor on his cheek any link to reality.

A minute later, or a day or a week or a year, Steve is there, lifting Bucky up by his arms and taking his limp weight out of the bathroom. Then it's the bed again, your smell, and Bucky tries to protest - but no luck.

"You don't look so good, pal," Steve says, kinder than Bucky perhaps deserves. "Here. Dr. Banner sent something to help you sleep." There's a little medicinal cup in Steve's hand, which makes Bucky grimace - ugh, he  _hates_  medicine.

"Yuck," he says petulantly.

"Drink it, punk. Or I'll force it down your throat." Ah. There's Steve's testiness.

"You know, when you were sick all the time as a kid, I remember being a  _lot_  nicer than this," Bucky snaps, peeved as he snatches the cup from Steve, downing it on a single gulp. It's too sweet, and he smacks his tongue in disgust.

"Whatever you say, bud. Just sleep, ok?"

Steve's pinched face is getting fuzzy. Fast medicine. His limbs are feeling heavy, so Bucky lets his head fall into the pillow, welcoming the softer numbness, and the blackness.


	21. The Death of Agent 28 (part three of four)

Bucky sits upright in bed, breathing in panicked gasps as piercing sunlight hits his eyes. Scrunching his face with a groan, he pinches his nose as he tries to calm himself. But the nightmare is too close; when he closes his eyes, the repulsive face of the Enforcer is still in his mind's eye.

And his voice. That awful  _voice_. The one that had commanded so many murders, so many missions and bloodshed and terrorism. The man who had worked for Hydra as a handler for over twenty years.

 _Always bring back a body_ , he would bark to Bucky.  _No body, no kill. Even if it's in pieces, bring back proof._  It was to test his loyalty, Bucky had supposed long ago. The rule had been relaxed only a handful of times, when the target was too prolific to be smuggling out body parts.

He rubs his eyes. "FRIDAY, what time is it?"

"6:52 a.m., sir. Shall I send for Dr. Banner or Captain Rogers?"

"Er - no. No."

Bucky's throat hurts. It's raw, like someone had taken a grater to it and made him drink lemonade. He finally looks up, barely daring to let his eyes rove around the room to take in his surroundings, to ground himself back.

A painting Steve had done of Brooklyn in the 40s. The open closet door, with familiar clothes hanging inside. He flinches from the sight of  _your_  belongings. His nightstand - nope, there's the picture of you and him, though you'd been wiped from it. The ugly carpet.

 _Always bring back a body_.

Bucky flinches. If the Enforcer was still alive, he wouldn't mind wrapping his fingers around the man's throat…

 _Always bring back a body_.

Bucky freezes.

 _Always bring back a body_. No body. No kill.

No kill? No body?

…No kill.

Oh hell. He was  _so stupid._

That last-minute phone call with Fury? Your quietness, on the flight down? That you'd accepted death so calmly, without even questioning it...that you'd knocked him out cold and he'd somehow made it out safely?

Damn you. You'd  _planned_  this, right under his nose.

Bucky wrenches back the bed covers - Steve must have tucked him in - and stomps to the closet to pull out a jacket and shoes. He's still in his tac gear. Who cares? He probably stinks like vomit, too. He doesn't care about that either.

Stomp stomp stomp to the elevator. Natasha and Sam are in the common room, but their whispered exchange breaks off abruptly as Bucky passes them. He doesn't even look. They're probably laughing at him, at his grief - because you're not dead at all. You'd faked your own death and he'd been duped.

Stomp stomp stomp to the train. It's early, so it's not busy - but he's given a wide berth.

Stomp stomp stomp to an office building he'd only visited once or twice. Inside, setting off the metal detector, but one furious glare stalls the security guard. Onto the elevator. Top floor.

Stomp stomp stomp.

Fury is standing at the enormous windows of his office, overlooking the city he protects. Hands clasped behind his back, he looks a forbidding figure - but Bucky is too broiled to be scared.

"Afternoon, Sergeant," Fury says casually, not turning around. "To what do I owe this visit?"

The words bite out of Bucky's mouth. "I think you know, sir."

A huffing chuckle. "I can guess. Figured you'd turn up sooner or later." Fury turns around then, bringing a hand to his face to rub his jaw. His eyes are piercing on Bucky, but Bucky doesn't move. Then the slightest smile crack's Fury's lips. "How'd you find out?"

"No body, no kill."

Fury nods. "Fair."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Bucky doesn't want to think. But the sternness in Fury's gaze gives him pause. "Her cover was blown," he says at last.

Fury nods again. "At SHIELD, that usually means forced retirement. Of a mission, or an entire identity."

But Bucky knows this. So he blurts the question he  _really_  wants to know the answer to: "Where is she?"

Fury lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't know."

"Wh - "

"I can tell you what she's  _doing_ ," Fury clarifies, as Bucky balls his fists. "She's burning her identity. She could be anywhere, really. She'll show up again, sooner or later. Probably."

From Fury, this is like information gold. He's never this verbal. Bucky should be thankful for that - but mostly he's just more confused. Why hadn't you come to him right away? Told the team? He could've helped you burn your identity...he's good at that.

As Bucky turns to leave, Fury adds a parting comment, "Memorial next Saturday. You'd better show. Keep up appearances."

A memorial? A freaking  _funeral_? This is the sickest joke Bucky's ever been a part of - and he'd cut off more than one penis in his service to Hydra to send to grieving widows. At least no one will be sending him any parts of you...right?

He has seen  _way_  too much.

* * *

Stark was kind enough to spring for the funeral, with obscene amounts of flowers and booze, with what seems like all of SHIELD and the Avengers attending in the reception hall on the ground floor of the Tower. Bucky hates it - partially because it's, you know, your funeral - partially because he's itching to find you, but he has no leads to go look for you and bring you home.

If he was willing to talk to the rest of the team, that might be a different story. But feeling as though he'd been left out of the entire scheme, he hasn't been very social lately.

But he's here now - a glass of whisky in his hand but not drinking it, trying to appear what passes for normal as he's greeted and consoled by dozens of people he doesn't actually know. The distant tinkling piano music doesn't help his nerves. Nor does Nick Fury's droning voice, giving a eulogy he knows is fake.

"Competent agent, a loyal friend, someone you really want to have your back in a tight spot…"

The last part gets dry laughs from the crowd. Bucky's fingers clench on his drink, the metal screeching on the glass. Funny how Fury doesn't say anything about your love of puns or that you once won a pretzel eating contest when you were a teenager. Or that you're incapable of doing any undercover accents.

Bucky jumps when Natasha lays a hand on his arm.

"Geez, Barnes, you're a bit tense, aren't you?" she says, frowning a little, but letting him go all the same.

"Wouldn't you be?" he retorts.

"Well, sure."

Bucky tries very hard to read Natasha - but she's a tough nut to crack. Always has been. The nonchalance in her eyes could be hiding real grief, or it could be the expression of her boredom in a funeral for someone who's obviously not dead. A moment later her brow quirks.

"I'll leave you to it, then." And she stalks away.

More pulls and nudges in other directions. Half-hearted listening, no-hearted responses. Bucky taps his foot restlessly, peering over the crowd, desperate for escape. He's put in his time, right? He can leave. His eyes roam over towards the bar, then to a door, then - back to the bar.

A woman he doesn't know.

Or does he?

Bucky's vision tunnels. His throat goes try, his heart lodging somewhere around his tonsils. Breaking off the conversation he wasn't interested in, he winds around the crowd of people, eyes only on the woman at the bar. He's not really surprised when her gaze turns to him, and she smiles.

He stops in front of her. "Hi."

"Hi," she says back, her voice weirdly unnatural. Though the features are unfamiliar, he's drawn in like a fish to bait. He'd know you  _anywhere_ , in any form. His heart is thumping a wild rhythm, of hope and excitement and relief and about a hundred other things. But he keeps his voice level.

"Most people consider it poor manners to attend your own funeral in disguise," Bucky deadpans. A snort of laughter.

"Why? I'm having a grand time. Look at how many people will miss me."

"Is your vanity satisfied?" he asks, a little annoyed.

"Mostly. How'd you know it was me?"

Bucky sits on the barstool next to you, crossing his arms as he gazes out at the crowd. "Probably the way you were looking at everybody like you've executed a marvelous joke and no one knows it."

Another laugh. "I'm getting clumsy."

"You wanted me to find you."

"Of course I did." A softer smile curls the unfamiliar lips now. A smile he knows, on a face he doesn't. "You think I'd just disappear?"

"You kinda did already."

"Right. Sorry about that."

Bucky sighs, running his hand through his hair. "It only took me about two days to figure it out. It was a bad two days though."

"I really am sorry, Bucky," you say, quieter now. "These things have to be...thorough."

"I figured."

"Will you forgive me?"

Bucky presses his lips together to keep from smiling, as he glances back at you out of the corner of his eye. "I will. Because I love you, and I don't want something as inconsequential as death to come between us."

Your laughter rings out.

"You're not breaking up with me, are you?" he asks next.

"'Course not. I'm gonna need you more than ever, you know. Plus I know I'll never find another bum as cute as yours."

Bucky rolls his eyes as you chuckle at your own joke.

"It'll be a struggle though," you say with a little dramatic sigh. "I'll have to start using my real name again."

"Tough," he teases. "You could change that too, you know."

"I could. Sounds like a bother, though."

"I mean…" Bucky trails off for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. "If we're gonna stay together, you could change it. You know, so we match."

The smile on your face broadens. "I could be convinced."

"You wanna stay in New York?"

You shrug. "Not really."

"Well, when you decide, just let me know and I'll pack my boxes."

Though looking away again, trying to appear casual, Bucky can feel your potent gaze on his face. " _You_  want to leave?" you ask back.

"I want to be with you. Even if it means leaving New York and the Avengers. It'll be boring without you, anyway." He winks in your direction. You giggle back.

"Might be boring with me, too. Had to turn in my Glock."

"I'll buy you another one, if you want."

"Nah, you don't need to. My pension's good. SHIELD may go through dead agents fast, but we're paid pretty well for it."

Bucky grins. "You gonna be my sugar mama?"

"You want me to?" That sparkle in your eyes - though the eyes are different - the expression is the same. Another lump lodges itself in his throat as he watches.

"Are - um, are you still pregnant?"

Your eyes flicker to the glass at your elbow. Water. Well, that answers that. Bucky lets loose a sigh of relief.

"I was worried - the explosion - "

But you cut him off with a laugh. "I wouldn't have gone through with it if there was danger. Besides, it takes more than a flimsy explosion to get rid of  _your_  offspring, Buck."

"Ha,  _ha_."

Shaking out your wig, you uncross your legs and hop down from the stool. With a wicked grin at Bucky, you quirk a brow and ask, "Take me upstairs? My bio code has changed."

"Don't you think it'll be suspicious if I leave a funeral with a new girl?" he asks, even though he's winding his fingers through yours already.

"No one knew about us but the team," you remind him. "And they already know I'm still alive. Probably."

Bucky chortles, falling into step with you towards the elevator to the upper levels. The solemn chatter is left behind, and he doesn't mind one bit. Into the lift, and once the doors close he tugs you close, leaning his head down to sniff your perfume - that, at least, hasn't changed. But he can't kiss you - another look at that biomask you're wearing, and he blanches.

"What, don't you like my new look?" you tease, tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.

"Er - this isn't going to be a permanent thing, right? You don't have to get plastic surgery?"

You laugh. "No - but I'll probably change up my hair. Just for fun. I hear pregnancy hair is to die for - I can't imagine how lucky I'll be with super-serum to boost it even more."

"I knew it," Bucky grumbles good naturedly, his fingers finding your waist and giving an affectionate squeeze. "You're just in this for my super serum."

"Hey, it's not  _my_ fault your sperm immunized itself to my birth control. A girl's allowed to take advantage!"

The elevator dings, and with some shared laughter he half-drags you off, towards the common area. The others had ducked out of the memorial early, too - Bucky stalls in his steps at the sudden gazes of the rest of the team - Steve, Natasha, Clint and Sam - sprawled on couches, still in their formalwear.

"Wow, Bucky. You didn't wait long," Clint snaps after a startled moment.

"Told you he'd figure it out," Natasha says with satisfaction, holding out her hand to Steve and wiggling her fingers. "Pay up."

Steve sighs, and leans over to dig out his wallet.

"You look good, 28," Sam teases, toasting in your direction with his drink. "Not  _better_. But good, considering you've been dead for a week."

"Wait," says Clint.

"Oh, big deal," Steve says sardonically, handing Nat a bill. "She died, get over it, I was dead for decades. Really loses its excitement when you work on a team like this."

"Thank  _you_ ," Natasha says smoothly, tucking the crisp twenty into her blouse.

"Finally," you mutter, and reach up to remove the biomask. A startling array of pixels, and then it's your familiar smile beaming around. Until that moment - Bucky hadn't been  _entirely_  sure. Just hopeful. And wondering if his desperation is making him lose his mind. But nope. As you shrug off your black blazer to toss on the couch, his heart leaps from his chest -

It's true. You're here. You're  _home_. Mission's over. For good.

"You gonna stay here for a while, then, Agent?" Steve asks.

"Oh, I'm not an agent anymore," you correct him, as Bucky slings an arm over your shoulder. A mischievous smile lights your face. "I'm - "

* * *

To Bucky's relief - mostly - after pleasantries and jokes were exchanged with the rest of the team, you insisted on going to bed. To sleep. You'd explained that you'd taken a red-eye flight into New York City from Istanbul, and were, understandably, exhausted. Burning one's identity is a tiring task, which Natasha readily agrees with - and Bucky, too. Maybe a little grudgingly.

"Those silly masks are more uncomfortable than they look," you tell Bucky ruefully, as he trails behind you into his bedroom. Shedding off your layers of clothing as if you haven't been away at all - he watches with bugged eyes, standing dumbly in the middle of the room as you fluff out your hair.

"I believe you," he says, as a instinctive response. You flash him a grin, as you dig around in dresser drawers for pajamas. Had you even been away? Bucky's beginning to question his sanity.

"I had a great lunch on my way over from the airport though," you muse. "So, nap time for me. And no, you're not invited." This punctuated with a wink, and you crawl into the bed. "FRIDAY, close the curtains, would you?"

"Of course, ma'am."

No more Agent. Bucky's eye twitches.

"Need anything?" he asks at last..

"I'll need food and water eventually, I suppose," you yawn. "If Sam palmed any of my combat knives from downstairs, get them back for me, would you? Those are mine. Not SHIELD's. Can't be confiscated."

Bucky chortles. "Oh, I'd be more than happy too, babe."

Your voice is sleepy. "Figured you would."

Not that Bucky is entirely certain how the super-serum works for you - but when you sleep for the next twenty-six hours, it seems relatively usual. Both he and Steve can go several days longer than normal without sleep - but when the time comes to recoup - it's brutal. Even waking you up for nourishment is a challenge. But your mood is good enough, at least. Even if you pass out again straight afterwards.

It's sometime after midnight, and Bucky cleaning his guns in the kitchen of the Tower when you finally wander out. He glances up, unable to stop from smiling as he takes in your bedhead, a wrinkled robe, a loopy smile.

"Hey," you say.

"Hey, yourself," Bucky replies, very cleverly.

"I'm starving."

Bucky puts his guns away, and gets to work.

After an impressive eight-egg omelet (each), plus an enormous bowl of cut fruit, two glasses of milk and a half a loaf of bread worth of toast, you finally sigh and lean back in your chair.

"I never knew what it was like to be hungry until now," you confess, as Bucky swipes the last dribble of cheese from your plate. "Now I know how you feel all the time."

"You get used to it," he teases.

"I'm glad this is only a short-time deal for me."

"Me too. Then I can go back to not worrying whether you're going to cause me serious harm."

Your brows lift, eyes twinkling all the same. "You're worrying about that?"

"Well, sure."

"Why? What'd you do?"

"Ha," Bucky says. "Nothing wrong, that's for sure."

"Uh huh." Your eyes flit to the clock on the wall, and sigh. "Yikes. Three a.m., and I've never felt more awake."

"Well, if you're feeling it - I mean…" he trailed off, suddenly unsure as your gazes rests on him. Your lips are curled upwards - that's a good sign. Bucky wiggles his eyebrows, and you burst into laughter.

"I'm definitely feeling it. Think we can busy ourselves until dawn?"

Bucky crumples his napkin in his hand, standing abruptly. "I can think of a few ways we can do that."

More than a few. Many. Every last particle of agony, of grief, of missing you so bad he thought his heart was going to burst into a million pieces - every last bit needs accounting for. Every bit of your skin memorized again. Every moan, every whimper, every way you say his name. And new learning, too: your belly is firmer than it was.

However awake you were earlier, dawn sees you dozing off, half-hanging off the side of the bed where Bucky had made you squirm all tired and sleepy until your protests turned to soft breathing, and he's left nuzzling the back of your neck as sunlight begins to send shafts of gold into the room.

He extracts himself from around you. You don't stir. The softest slide of drawer as Bucky peeps into his bedside table, and then he tiptoes around the bed.

You're glowing in the dim light, a dazed sort of smile still on your lips. Never more beautiful - Bucky's heart does a stutter and a flip, and it feels delicious.

Your hand is hanging towards the floor. Perfect. Scrunching his nose in concentration, Bucky  _c - a - r - e - f - u - l - l - y_ slides the metal band onto your fourth finger. He's holding his breath - and nearly jumps ten feet in the air when you stir.

"Whassisit," you mutter, squirming as your hand flies to your face to rub your eyes. Which pop open, and you stare at the ring on your finger. Bucky panics.

"I was, uh…" he clasps your hand, yanking off the ring as your bemused gaze turns to him. "Seeing if it fit."

"Oh yeah?" Mischief making your eyes bright, you prop yourself up on an elbow, and Bucky swallows thickly.

"Yeah. Um, just for fun."

"For fun," you repeat. Your smile is growing. "Bucky, that's my grandmother's ring."

"A replica," Bucky blurts.

"No, it's not." You laugh. "You think you can live with a secret agent and she won't notice when you call her dad and ask for a ring, and then hide it in your  _bedside table_? It's a rookie mistake!"

Bucky's mouth falls open. "You go through  _my stuff_?"

"Everyone in the Tower has gone through your stuff at least once," you say, laughing more as you swing your legs over the side of the bed to sit up. "Natasha? Four or five times, probably. Remember the sort of people who live here?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, and lumbers back to his feet, ring clenched tightly in his fist.

"Hey," you say, holding out the palm of your hand expectantly, quirking a brow up at him. "That belongs in my family. Give it back."

Bucky sniffs. "I don't think I will."

A pause. "No?" you ask, and your voice is low and dangerous - but the glint in your eye far too smug - and Bucky gulps.

"Don't do it," he says abruptly, backing up slightly as you stand slowly. "Babe, come on - think of the babies - "

But you're too light-footed - and too enhanced - he yelps as you take a leap towards him, and a half-second later your thighs are clenched around his head (a familiar position, though an unfamiliar circumstance), your too-strong fingers reaching for his fist as Bucky flails. One elbow is wrapped around his throat - fondly, not threateningly - and he pretends to fight for breath. You're laughing - clearly not buying it.

"Get off!" he chokes, but despite himself - he starts laughing as he nearly loses his footing.

"Give it back!"

"No! Get off!"

"Bucky!"

" _Babe!_ "

A knock at the door, and he freezes - and you do, too - then it opens with a crash, and Sam, huffing and puffing with temper in his rumpled pajamas, takes in the sight of two naked, wrestling agents (well, only one agent now, technically), as Bucky feels his face turn hot. Then Sam's eyes widen, and he slaps a hand over his face.

"You two," he begins, loud and furious, pointing a finger in almost the right direction. "Woke! Me! Up!"

"Sorry," you say, voice trembling to keep from laughing. "Bucky, ah, filched a family possession of mine."

" _I don't care_ , you freaks - "

"Go away, Wilson," Bucky says good-naturedly. "I'm tryin' to propose to my girl."

"Like  _that_?"

"Go away, Wilson," you repeat. "I'm trying to let my man act like he's super slick - "

"Try harder," Bucky mutters, pinching your foot.

"Seriously. I almost liked it better when she was dead," Sam says vehemently, bumping into the doorframe as he turns to leave - eyes still covered. Then there are more footsteps, and Steve's head pokes into the doorway next - and he immediately squeezes his eyes shut. Bucky swears.

"Hey," Steve says, face red as a tomato. "Who left all the dishes in the sink?"


	22. The Death of Agent 28 (part four of four)

_Six months later._

"Drat."

The doorknob is still in your hand, along with several inches of jagged door, splintered wood where it had broken off. Meanwhile the remainder of the door shudders to a stop, protesting the brutal treatment. Your ears still ring from the snap of wood, and you wince.

That's the second time this week.

Oops.

Waddling from the bathroom to the living room, you can hear quite plainly the shuffle of Bucky's socks on the floor in the kitchen, the twist of a jar opening. It gets annoying, the super-hearing.

"How many sandwiches you want, babe?" Bucky calls.

"Um - three. One for each of us."

"You got it."

The television is muted, and you sit on the couch with a sigh. Six months you've waited for this day - and there's no way a little accident from a flimsy doorknob is going to ruin it. Propping your feet up, you turn the volume back on, gnawing at your lip as the newscaster begins to speak.

"Hey, you could've waited for me," Bucky says crossly, wandering into the living room with two plates.

"I could've, but the news won't," you retort.

"Fair." He hands you a plate - which you accept eagerly. It's been an hour since your last meal and already your stomach is growling again. Growing babies is hard work. Gotta keep your strength up.

Bucky's feet join yours on the table, and finally the newscaster introduces the trial.

" _The indictment of Thomas P. Renlen began today at the Manhattan County Courthouse. Renlen, accused of conspiring with the supposedly defunct secret society Hydra, along with other crimes such as smuggling, theft, kidnapping, and murder - has pleaded guilty._ "

"Good," you say, around a mouthful of sandwich. The screen switches to a shaky camera angle of several people exiting the courthouse - Renlen in the middle, his face repulsively familiar, flanked by angry looking lawyers. You scoff, and take another bite.

 _"Renlen has criminal ties with the felon Ricky Coates, who is currently in prison in London, and Alexander Pierce, who lead Hydra for years before his death. We spoke with an expert, who predicts that the trial will last less than a day, with evidence mounting up, and public discord against him…_ "

"He doesn't look so good," Bucky comments. Likely referring to the baggy skin around Renlen's eyes, and the baggy suit he was wearing.

"Why would he?" you ask, amused. "Lost his job, and now he's going to jail. "And I popped his eardrums on my way out of the bunker in Honduras. See how he winces when people shout at him? That's not just sensitivity to noise - that's still healing. He's got scabs around his ears, see?"

"Ouch. That's harsh."

"He put a mind control drug in my system, kidnapped me, and tied me up," you point out. "And he didn't like my jokes."

Bucky chortles. "The real crime."

" _Tell_  me about it."

 _"It's thanks to the Avengers that we were able to nab Renlen in the first place,_ " a government security expert is saying on the television now.  _"He's slippery as they come. The CIA nearly got him back the 80s, but under a different name. At the time, he -_ "

"I think that was all the new news," you say with a sigh, and lean over with a grunt to grab the remote. The screen goes blank.

"Heard from Fury?" Bucky asks, after a moment.

"Nah - he's not exactly the 'let's catch up over coffee' type."

Bucky grins. "Well - he's testifying next week on your behalf. Though to be fair, I'm pretty bummed you won't be there. I'd love to see you take the witness stand - Renlen would never know what hit him."

You can't help laughing - but that strains your back, and so you stop. "I was never allowed to testify for SHIELD," you admit. "My identity was  _that_  secure. Would've been fun, though. I've been told I have a disconcerting presence when I want to."

"You do," Bucky says, nudging with an elbow in the side as his eyes glint down at you. "The first few times I saw you I wasn't sure if you were gonna cut off my balls or grab them. Nicely."

"Wow,  _thanks_ for that imagery. And those excellent ideas."

"Weren't meant to be  _ideas_ , babe."

"Too late now." You like a bit of mustard from your thumb, adding nonchalantly, "By the way, I broke another door."

Bucky lifts his head, blinking fast in bafflement. Then he leans forward on the couch to peer around the corner - and sees the hole in the bathroom door. He groans.

" _Again_?"

"Yes,  _again_ , you goof. Don't pretend like you never get klutzy," you say severely, poking his knee. He laughs, and reaches over a hand to pat the swollen circumference of your belly.

"Not this klutzy," he teases. "You're just...extra special."

"Watch it, buster. I may be pregnant and retired, but I can still kick your butt all the way to Miami."

Bucky snorts. "Whatever you say, babe."

Wise man.

You start on your last sandwich, as he glances over at the broken door again. "I'm not sure if I can fix this one," he admits. "Might have to buy a new door."

"On the insurance claim you can list the cause as 'super sperm.'"

"That'll go over well."

"About as well as Clint's stand up at Nat's birthday party last year - you remember that?"

Bucky laughs. "What are you talking about? You  _loved_ it!"

"Well, I have a very strange sense of humor. Jokes about eggplants and lawn mowers? Count me in."

"You know, I'm not even sure I understand that joke  _now_. And it's been months."

You set your empty plate on the coffee table, satisfied as you glance over at Bucky with a grin. "I've tried explaining it to you at least four times," you tease. "I don't think it's my fault anymore."

"Ha, ha."

Undaunted by his good-natured glower, you curl up next to him as he sets his plate aside, too. Then Bucky lifts an arm, offering you a space in his embrace. You take it happily - ignoring that most of you doesn't fit - and sigh as he kisses the top of your head. Curling your fingers around his knee, Bucky winds his metal fingers around yours - the  _ting!_  of metal against diamond makes you chuckle.

"Amused?" His voice is low and gravelly in your ear, making you shiver a little.

"Always. That's why you love me, isn't it?"

Bucky tilts his head slightly to study your face, clearly baffled. "Hmm?"

"Because you're too solemn and I've never taken a single thing seriously in my life."

He obliges you with a laugh. "You think that's why I love you? Really?"

"Well, that, and my sexy bod - "

" _Very_  sexy."

" - and my skill with the blade - "

"Never seen you use a sword, babe. Knives are good, though."

" - and my singing - "

"Eh…"

" - and how I can rip doors off of their hinges - "

"Loved you long before you could do that, silly girl."

" -  _and_  you especially love me because," you nuzzle your nose to the skin of Bucky's neck, and he twitches, eyeing you suspiciously. "I let you accost me in the bathrooms and rip my clothes off."

Bucky's laugh rings out. "You  _like_  that, and don't you dare pretend otherwise."

"If you say so."

"I do."

His words hang in the air like the thickest honey; sweet and golden and shining until the warm feeling in your chest, of freedom and peace and love - builds and builds until there's nothing left in the world that could disrupt it, ever again.


	23. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Sharon babysit.

"It'll be fine, babe, you don't have to worry."

Bucky offers this with a grin, opening the passenger door for you as you quirk a brow before you slide into the seat. The door closes. You adjust your skirt, and when he's in the driver's seat, starting the ignition, you say,

"I'm not worried at all. You don't have to act like  _I_ 'm the one having a hard time with this."

Bucky glances at you with narrowed eyes. But you grin, and he gives a huff of laughter.

"Let me pretend, at least," he says jovially, and the car begins to move down the long driveway. "Never would've thought I'd be so reluctant to live the twins with Steve and Sharon so we can have a night out."

"I suspected," you tease. "I'm surprised you didn't break down sobbing, to be honest."

"You're a pill, you know that?"

"I've been told that before."

Idly you weave your fingers through Bucky's on the gear shift. He glances over with a lopsided smile - the kind that makes your stomach flutter - before his eyes return to the road. You rest your head against the seat, letting your lips curl into a smile as you study Bucky's profile: sharp jaw, scruffy chin, a grin, and his sparkling eyes. His long hair is tied back. You can't wait to mess it up later.

"Got anything under here, babe?" he asks, and slides his hand from beneath yours to rest on your knee - then slowly slides it up, skewing your skirt.

"Why don't you find out?" you purr, and Bucky coughs slightly.

"It's a bit early for that, isn't it?"

"The climax of the date doesn't have to be at the  _end_ , Bucky," you point out. "You know that. And who's the one feeling who up,  _hmm_?"

His fingers pause at the garter you're wearing around your thigh - a substitute for the old thigh holsters you used to wear. Nearly the same effect on Bucky, and you see his teeth gnawing on his lip.

"We may not make it to the restaurant, babe," he warns.

"I'm not hungry anyway."

"Yeah, I saw you scarfing down those goldfish - "

Bursting into laughter, you pinch his hand. Bucky yelps, jerking his hand away from beneath your skirt and casting you a glare.

"Hey," he gripes. "If you're gonna go around nicking the girls' snacks all the time - "

"Oh, please; you do it too."

"Not right before dinner!"

"I was  _hungry_."

"You're always hungry, babe."

"Well, how can I not be?" you say, lowering your voice to a croon. "With this delicious  _dish_ in the seat next to me?"

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard that you're almost surprised they don't pop right out of his head. Laughing, you reach over to tuck some hair behind his ear. He's trying to hide a smile. No luck.

"Now you're talking like a grandma," he teases. "But golly gee, if the kids I grew up with heard a pretty dame like you saying the filthy things you whisper in my ear every night, and day, too - "

"They'd be jealous," you interrupt.

Bucky nods, a wise glint in his blue eyes. "Who wouldn't be?"

"And those things are  _private_ ," you point out. "I hope they wouldn't know what I say to you in  _private._ "

A pause. You quirk a brow - he sends you a wink, and you giggle.

Town appears in the distance; glowing street lights and glaring headlights. Bucky's hand settles back on your knee, not roving this time, and you squeeze his fingers. Even though there are fewer gun fights and knife fights and bomb disposals and saving the world than there used to be, things are nice.

You wait in the car, worrying the hem of your dress in your fingers as Bucky waltzes around the car after parking. His grin makes you feel warm all over as he offers a hand, and you grin. "Good service," you tease, and he narrows his eyes. Still not trusting your teasing. Smart man.

It's a quaint restaurant, in the downtown strip. Bucky's hand stays at the curve of your spine as you're shown to the reserved table. There are candles. That's nice. They make his eyes gleam golden as he smiles across the table, his knee nudging yours beneath the tablecloth.

"Get what you want, babe," he smirks. "My treat."

"The date was my idea," you remind him. "I pay."

"I'm tryna be a gentleman, babe."

"You felt me up on the drive here!"

"Oh." Bucky's eyes twinkle, utterly unrepentant. "Right."

You hide a laugh beneath the tinkling piano music coursing through the restaurant, and nudge his knee back. "It's pretty convenient of you to ignore the fact that we have a _joint bank account._ "

"Details, details." Bucky waves a hand with a snooty crinkle of his nose, and you can't stop the laugh that comes then. "Sheesh, babe, you're gonna get us kicked out," he whispers in a severe tone. "You have to be a  _lady_  in an establishment like this."

You cross your eyes, and he snickers. Propping up his menu on the table, Bucky's eyes stay fastened on yours above the rim. You let your gaze wander along his neck, his lips (which he wets, when he sees where you're looking), and the cut of his jacket.

"I know what  _I_  want for dinner," you say resolutely, in a low voice.

"What is it?" Bucky shoots back. "The crab? The chicken?"

"The  _assassin_."

His lips twitch, and he presses them together a snort escapes him. Preening, you clear your throat and reach for a glass of ice water. Bucky is shaking his head as you set the glass back down, smirking.

"You're absurd," he says fondly.

"And you adore me."

"I know."

The waiter returns. An order is made. It's hard to concentrate with Bucky's leg pressing against yours, but you do your best - and when the waiter has gone you level your eyes on Bucky, and press your leg back. His lips curl upwards.

"Do you remember Shanghai?" he asks, arching a brow, and you laugh.

"That I will  _never_ forget."

"I'm surprised Tony didn't sideline us after that one."

"We probably deserved it."

"Probably." His eyes twinkle. "Then again, I didn't  _ask_  you to have your hand down my pants while we were on recon."

"Didn't complain, either."

"Touché."

Idly you run your index finger to the rim of your glass as Bucky arches a brow. He takes a long drink, without moving his eyes from your face, and you smile. He clears his throat.

"How long do you think it'll take our food to get here?" he asks.

"Too long."

Polite society has its limits. You sigh, and lest the heat building between your legs as Bucky grins make the wait more difficult to bear - you let your eyes drift away, and admire the restaurant instead.

Much less exciting.

Bucky catches your hand on the top of the table, and absently strokes your knuckles with this thumb. No words are needed. His affection leaks through the simple touch, and your heart flutters.

Suddenly you sit forward, eyes on the doors to the kitchens.

"Bucky," you say out of the corner of your mouth, and his eyes snap to you instantly. "How common is it for chefs to pack?"

"Boxes, turkeys, or - ?"

"Guns."

Bucky's jaw clenches. "In this part of this town? Not really."

You observe through the swinging door a few more moments. Already the thrill of fight-or-flight is making your muscles twitch, and Bucky is sitting up in his seat, alert.

"It's been a while," he says, with a little grin for you. "Up to it, babe?"

"Huh! As if you have to ask."

"Just making sure."

A sly smile, and you push your chair from the table to stand. Bucky's up, too - without a word spoken aloud, he makes for the hall which leads to the back of the restaurant. You take a position by the doors to the kitchen, pretending to admire a painting hanging on the wall. But your eyes flick elsewhere.

Three of the busboys going in and out of the kitchens are packing, too. It's pretty obvious - they must not be professionals. Besides those three and the cook, you don't see any other weapons.

Too easy.

There's a shout from inside the kitchen. Bucky must have entered - patrons in the restaurant start to turn their heads at the noise, but you flash them a winning smile as one of the busboys charges through the door from the kitchens into the restaurant. The door swings open - you catch it, and slam it back into his face. He crumples on the expensive carpet. Crouching down, you pull out the gun from his belt. A quick look shows that the serial number's been scratched off in the metal. Suspicious.

"Nothing to worry about," you assure a waitress standing nearby with wide eyes. Carefully you step over the unconscious man, and into the kitchen.

Two gunshots - a glass platter shatters, and there's a familiar metal  _ping_  as the second glances off of Bucky's arm, ripping his black jacket as he wrestles a gun from the cook.

Holding your own pilfered gun at eye level, you stay behind an industrial size refrigerator and aim at the leg of another busboy. You take the shot - it recoils - and the bullet lodges into a nearby stove.

You're out of practice. Shoot. You take aim again as the busboy yelps and glances wildly around for help - but your second shot flies true, and no help comes. He collapses, howling.

The last busboy has wrapped an arm around Bucky's neck from behind and Bucky continues to grapple with the cook. You don't trust your aim enough. Would have, a year or two ago. A closer look will be necessary.

"Need some help, darling?" you ask sweetly as you approach the trio, and all eyes turn to you.

"Yeah, that'd be great, babe," Bucky chokes out.

You take aim, and land a sharp kick against the cook's knees - your heels are quite helpful in the pain department, and as he shakes off Bucky to deal with you, Bucky takes an arching flip backwards, landing the man on his back on the floor with a thud and a groan.

The cook has a gun. You'd tossed yours on a table.

But you've had worse odds, all in all.

Smiling at the man's panicked face, you grab his wrist before he can aim, jerking it down on your knee to the  _r - i - p - p - i - n - g_  sound of your skirt - oh well - and his gun clatters to the floor. After that, it's only a few punches and jabs, and he's lying face down, not moving.

The kitchen is quiet. Glancing around, you see a few frightened faces peering out from behind the door to the walk-in freezer. Bucky is heaving himself to his feet, regarding your torn skirt with interest, and up to your face with consternation.

"I had them on the ropes," he deadpans.

"Sure, Buck. What was their deal, anyway?"

"Found some drugs and more weapons in a dumpster out back." Bucky shrugs off torn and dirtied jacket, a little ruefully. "I was just gonna ask 'em nicely to turn themselves in, but things got a little, er, out of hand."

"Things get out of hand with you a lot," you tease. "Shall I call the police?"

"Yeah. Then let's scram."

Bucky's suggestions is far simpler than the situation turned out to be - by the time both your statement and Bucky's have been give to the police, it's nearly ten o'clock, and restaurant service had been cancelled for the night. And you're starving.

Walking out of the restaurant hand-in-hand, you sigh and shiver in the chill air. "Cheap dress," you mumble, with a frown at the tear revealing your skin. "I did not dress tonight to bust a drug ring."

"If we'd known, we could've done it a lot more efficiently," Bucky grins, opening the car door for you. "Like, eating first. I don't like dealing with police on an empty stomach."

Luckily there's a fast food drive through still open in town, and there's plenty of time for gorging on greasy food in the parking lot. You'd told Steve and Sharon that you two would be back before midnight.  _Plenty_ of time.

"We make a good team," Bucky muses, crinkling up a wrapper. Then his expression falls. "Aw, shoot, I got ketchup on my shirt."

You pass him a napkin with a grin. "We've always made a good team," you tease. "Even Stark thought so."

"Hard to impress Stark." Bucky swipes the ketchup, but it only smears. You snicker.

"Serves you right for wearing your nice white shirt to bust heads."

That earns you a glare - but you only laugh.

"Take me home, Bucky," you order imperiously. "It's my  _bedtime_."

He blinks, and a slow grin grows on his face. "Yes,  _ma'am_."

As Bucky starts the car, your hand finds its way to his thigh, and squeezes. He shifts, sending you a narrowed look - but you smile innocently, and your fingers move upward.

"Come on, babe," he groans. "Keep that up, and this is gonna be over before it starts."

You don't stop. He does  _not_  keep the speed limit.

Once out of town, the road is flanked by thick woods. You unbuckle your seatbelt and scoot over, nuzzling your nose into the hot, spicy-smelling flesh of his neck.

"Babe…" Bucky whines. "This isn't safe."

"Oh, please. We've done worse."

"I  _know_ , but we almost crashed that one time, remember?"

"Well, you've learned to drive better at...sensitive moments." Your hand slides between the buttons of his shirt, feeling the fine hairs that grow on his chest as he groans again.

"You're gonna kill us," he rasps. You hoist yourself on your knees, for better reaching.

"Then why don't you pull over?" you coo into his ear.

Bucky doesn't need telling twice. Immediately he starts to brake - not hard enough to jostle you around - and within seconds the car is parked on the side of the road, and he turns to catch your lips in a fierce kiss. Then his metal hand is snaking beneath your skirt, merciless and titllating as he yanks your underwear aside. A sharp intake of air, and you moan into Bucky's mouth.

"You're gonna turn me into putty," you murmur, pushing your hips forward as far as you can. The center console blocks you.

"Good." His voice vibrates against your throat as he nibbles your skin. "I want to. Payback, babe."

You laugh - a little throatily, a little maniacally. He snags the neckline of your dress between his teeth, and yanks down.

Great. More tearing.

But at this point, what use is there in caring?

It's all very awkward - it usually is, in cars - but within minutes you're panting, Bucky is panting, and the windows have steamed over a little. You push him back into his seat, following him with your leg thrown over his hips as you reach to recline the driver's seat the rest of the way. His belt is already undone, and you push that down, too.

Bucky's eyes are bright and hazy with lust as his hands rove across your body, his eyes fastened on your face. Obligingly you lean down to kiss him as you start to roll your hips against his, everything in its proper place. Bucky's skin is flushed and hot and sweaty - and you're pretty sure you don't look any less disheveled.

"What time did ya say we'd be back?" he grunts.

"Um - midnight."

"'Kay."

 _Plenty_ of time.

It's 11:34 when you and Bucky finally wander into your house - the lights are mostly off, and to your surprise, Sharon is standing near the living room, one of the babies cradled in her arms. She smiles in greeting, and you automatically shush Bucky behind you.

Either Sharon doesn't notice your torn dress and assortment of hickeys on both you and Bucky - or she doesn't feel inclined to comment. Likely the latter.

Luckily Sam isn't there.

You wander into the living room, shoes in hand - and see Steve lying out on the couch, snoring softly, with the other baby fast asleep on his chest. You clasp a hand to your mouth to keep from giggling, but Bucky beside you lets out a loud snort.

"Hey Rogers - if you think our couch is so comfy, why don't you just move in?" he asks loudly, and Steve jerks awake. The baby slumbers on, and Bucky winds around the coffee table to pick up his daughter.

"What the heck?" Steve rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I was awake just a second ago - "

"No, you weren't," Sharon corrects. "You've been out for two hours."

"Hey, it happens," Bucky says kindly to Steve.

" _All_  the time," you confirm with a smile. "I don't think Bucky could hold one of the girls and  _not_  fall asleep for about six months."

"Hey," Bucky glares at you as he makes for the girls' bedroom, and you wink back.

"Thanks again for watching them," you say to Sharon, taking the baby from her arms. "Hope Steve got his fill of baby snuggles."

"Hey - " Steve starts.

"You're welcome. Anytime.  _Really_." Sharon is grinning over at Steve as he pulls on his shoes.

"What happened to you guys, anyway?" Steve asks, as Bucky returns.

"This is ketchup, not blood," Bucky explains, pointing to the stain.

"Uh huh.  _Sure,_  Buck."

"Long story," you interject. "You can watch the news tomorrow."

Five minutes later the house is quiet in its normal way, with retreating tail lights in the distance and all the lamps turned off. Except for one. Pulling on Bucky's ruined collar, you retreat backwards into the bedroom, grinning all the while at the little smirk on his face, that soft, devious light in his eyes.

"I should've known the car wasn't enough for ya," he teases softly, and nudges the door shut behind him.


	24. V-Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to plan a special surprise.

Bucky is, for most intents and purposes, devastated.

Waving a towel listlessly in front of his face, he takes a ragged breath that tastes like acrid smoke. His eyes are burning, from the smoke and surfacing tears of both pain and horrible disappointment. His flesh hand still stings, despite the aloe vera he'd bandaged on with a cold compress; his toes throb from where he'd dropped a cast iron skillet on it (he's 75% sure nothing's broken); his ears ring from incessant wail the smoke alarm. The batteries had been thrown across the room in frustration.

Devastated. Utterly devastated. Just like the kitchen.

Just like his hopes and dreams.

Eyes still burning, Bucky coughs a few times as he pulls his phone from his pocket. He ignores the time - he has to, otherwise he'd  _really_ panic. His lip curls to even consider what he's doing. But what other choice does he have?

Bucky puts the phone to his ear, methodically waving the smoke around. Two rings. Then it picks up.

"Hey, man," Sam's voice is far too chipper. "Is this a butt dial or are you in dire need of my unmatchable assistance?"

"It's not funny," Bucky grumbles. "It's an emergency."

"Oh?"

Bucky swallows. His throat itches from the smoke. And his pride smarts. "I ruined dinner," he mutters, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Hmm?" Sam asks slyly. "What was that? Couldn't quite hear you."

" _I ruined dinner!_ " Having to say it twice is even worse - hearing Sam's half-smothered laugh on the other end of the line, the cherry on top. Bucky curses under his breath.

"Don't worry, man," Sam says between cackles. "Order pizza."

"Pizza?" Bucky frowns.

"Yeah, or is that too modern for you?"

"It's Valentine's Day, Wilson," Bucky snaps. "I can't just order  _pizza_  for dinner."

"Oh, right, the whole  _romance_ thing," Sam chortles. "Well, considering how well I know your girl - "

" _Wilson_..." Bucky growls in warning

" - I'm just saying, she probably won't mind," Sam finishes. "I think anyone would prefer pizza over whatever you messed up, man."

"Thanks for that," Bucky says sardonically. "For the record, it wasn't my fault. Gas stoves are dangerous; pots and pans should come with splatter tops, and Stark should have outfitted my new arm with rubber grippers."

A split second, and then Sam is roaring with laughter - so loud that Bucky has to pull the phone away from his ear, wincing. It's several moments before Sam is quiet enough to talk again. During that time, Bucky's sour irritation ferments.

"Look, I'll order a pizza for you guys, okay?" Sam says at last. "I know how much you hate to do the order online thing. But you owe me, Barnes."

"Fine, I owe you," Bucky sighs, rubbing his eyes again. "Just - thanks, okay?"

"Don't get all sappy on me, now," Sam teases. "Save it for 28. You'll need it, once she sees whatever mess you're standing in. Send me a pic, would you? I wanna enjoy that."

"Oh, screw you, Wilson!" Bucky yanks the phone away, jabbing the end call button - Sam's hoots are cut off. Not as satisfying as slamming an old-fashioned telephone down. But Bucky takes a deep breath, and gazes around the kitchen.

He's screwed.

Twenty minutes until you're home.

Prioritize. Prioritize. Bucky's good at that. Open windows. Charred food in the trash. Dump all the nasty dishes in the sink. Wipe down counters. Wipe down floor. Trash out to the hall. Spray that air freshner you keep under the sink. Move the vase of flowers he'd picked up earlier to the front room. Maybe that'll distract you.

The apartment still stinks - and the air outside is so crisp that Bucky doesn't dare open any more windows. There are no overhead fans, either.

Candles it is.

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin as he hears a key in the lock - blowing out the match, he rushes to throw it in the trash. Oops. Hadn't put a new bag in. Cupboards slam, but he hears your voice over it all -

"Aw, Bucky! Are these for me?"

"Yeah, babe!" he calls back, shoving the bag into the trash can. "Um - happy Valentine's day!"

"Mmm, they're lovely."

"Just like you." Putting on his best charming smile - despite that he's far too flustered to be feeling charming at all - Bucky strolls back into the front room with his hands tucked in his pockets, casting you a wink as soon as you look up. Bent over the bouquet on the coffee table, you lift your head from smelling the flowers, eyes appraising Bucky in a distracting way. Then you blink, your nostrils flare, and your eyes flit beyond him.

"What's burning?" you ask.

"Er - nothing."

You quirk a brow.

"Fine. I burned dinner," Bucky admits. As if he could ever lie to you. He wouldn't dare, anyway. Suppressing a groan of leftover frustration, he runs his hands through his loose hair. "I'm sorry. I wanted it to be a nice surprise, but…"

"You didn't need to do that," you cut him off, bemused. "I don't like surprises. It's a secret agent thing." A step around the coffee table, a beaming smile - and then you're tucked up in Bucky's willing embrace. What was he going on about, again? Now that your eyes are sparkling into his, his memories seem to be fleeting…

Your chin tilts up, and Bucky obliges with a kiss. It's short lived - you pull away, nose wrinkled.

"You taste like smoke," you comment.

"Well, not all of us have had a relaxing day like  _you_ ," Bucky snarks, hoping he doesn't look at devastated as he feels. You start to giggle, and he growls, making a nip for the sensitive flesh of your neck before you squirm away.

"Go shower," you suggest. "I'll order pizza."

"No need," Bucky grumbles. "Already on it's way."

"Really!" your brow quirks again as you shrug off your coat, backing up to hand it on the coat stand. "I thought you swore never to order pizza again. After the  _last_ incident."

Bucky scrunches his nose. "Sam ordered it."

"Aww. Sam's so nice."

"Yeah, after he laughed at me for about ten minutes." With a woeful sigh, Bucky pulls his acrid-smelling shirt over his head, wafting around more stink. But it's worth the widening of your eyes as you stall in your tracks. He smirks, and flexes his biceps - both sides, and the metal whirrs.

"Whoa, hello," you murmur, tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip. "Good to see  _you_."

"Wanna help me shower?" Bucky teases, wiggling his brows as he undoes his belt next. Your eyes flit down.

"Um - " There appears to be a serious moral conundrum going down - Bucky smirks, wiggling his hips, and you sigh softly, shaking your head. "Someone's gotta answer the door for the pizza."

Bucky groans - exaggerated this time, and then yelps as you land a swat on his backside. "Hey!" he protests, making for the bathroom as he shoots a half-hearted glare back at you. "That's no way to treat the fellow who bent his back out of shape to give you a romantic evening!"

"And how did that work out?" you call, but he's already around the corner. Bucky chooses not to respond to that particular taunt.

The hot showers does wonders for his mood - then again, your appearance had, too. Always does. Who cares about how dinner turned out, anyway?  _Every_ evening with you is special, especially now that you aren't hiding your relationship anymore. So why be grumpy about it?

Bucky is smiling when he finally saunters back into the front room, hair still wet and only wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of running shorts (he's hoping they won't be on for long) - you're wearing an apron over your work clothes for office days, peering into a cardboard box that smells quite nice. As he enters, you glance up, clearly stifling laughter.

"From Sam, huh?" you ask, voice quivering.

Bucky's good mood stalls. "What did he do?" A few more strides, and he's beside you at the dining table. He cusses under his breath as he sees - a plain pepperoni pizza, though the pepperoni are shaped like an ejaculating -

"Sam has quite the sense of humor, doesn't he?" you say lightly. "Well. I'm about ready to wrap my mouth around this - what do you think?"

Bucky's mouth falls open. He blinks into the sparkle in your eyes - but you only laugh, nudging him with an elbow.

"Wow, Bucky, you're a pervert tonight," you tease. "I was talking about the pizza."

"Uh - uh huh."

"Well - for now. You might have to make up for the mess in the kitchen," you add. Lips pursed, brows lifted expectantly. Bucky winces.

"Look, I'm sorry - "

But you take mercy on him. "I know, I know." Winding your arm through his, you smile up at him. "I don't know what you burned on my pans, but it's gonna take some real elbow grease to get off. I just spent five minutes just picking up the batteries from the smoke alarm, Mr. Temper Tantrum."

Bucky cringes.

"After that, you're lucky I still love you," you say lightly, but your smile assures him you're not serious. About not loving him for something like this disaster, that is.

"Yes, I am," he agrees, and pecks a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Let me make it up to you? After pizza, maybe?"

Your eyes are shining bright, curious. "Are you thinking like, cleaning the kitchen to its usual spotless splendor, or making sweet love to me until I can't remember my own name?"

Bucky grins. "You're gonna have to wait and see, won't you, babe?"


	25. Girls' Night/ Guys' Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky sends you on a girl’s night while he takes care of your twins - nothing could possibly go wrong, right?

"You sure about this?" you tease Bucky lightly, running your hands down his chest as he smiles down at you - there's a soft, loving look in his eyes - but it's a little irked, too.

"Of course, babe," he says, his voice full of long-suffering. "Wouldn't have recommended it if I wasn't."

"Well, sure," you say with a grin. "I just know you like to tell me about every little thing the twins do...you won't be able to call me every time one of them spits up, you know."

"That's okay," Bucky grins. "I'll just tell Sam."

"I don't think he's gonna appreciate that."

"He doesn't have a choice." Bucky leans down to kiss the tip of your nose, squeezing your waist a little - regretfully you pull away. Girl's night is an exhilarating prospect, but leaving Bucky and your daughters…

"We'll be fine, 28," Steve says firmly, coming 'round the corner with Winifred in one of his arms. She's chewing on a fist, and there's a definite drool spot on his white t-shirt. You quirk a brow.

"Well, I trust  _you_ , Steve," you say lightly. "But I'm just a tad concerned about how Bucky is going to handle me being away."

There's a low growl in Bucky's throat, and his metal fingers pinch your behind. You yelp, and squirm away.

"New dress, Bucky," you tell him severely. "No ripping."

" _Yet_." There's a glint in his eyes, and you smile.

"Yet," you repeat.

"Gross! Ya'll are nasty." Sam collapses on a couch with Rebecca, propping up his feet on the coffee table. The baby is facing him, standing on his thighs, and he blows a raspberry at her. She blows one back.

"So are you," Natasha deadpans from her perch on the other side of the coffee table, where she's putting in earrings. "No shoes on the furniture, Wilson. You know how Tony feels about that."

"Tony ain't here," Sam points out, grinning at Becks. "And you know he doesn't get mad at us when the Barnes girls are here. Isn't that right? Isn't that right?" And he cooes at Becks until she gives a gargling laugh, bouncing happily.

"I'm clearly not needed here," Bucky says dryly.

"Oh, sure you are," you tell him cheerily, with a final squeeze of his hand. "You know Steve and Sam will give the babies back as soon as they start fussing."

"Yeah, yeah. I know."

"I'm ready," Sharon announces, striding down the hall towards the door. She gets a long, admiring look from Steve - but she only grins back, and Natasha stands.

"Don't get into trouble," Natasha says to the room at large.

"How much trouble can we get into watching cowboy movies?" Steve laughs. You glance at Sharon - who looks at Natasha, who shakes her head at you.

A last kiss for Bucky, and arm-in-arm, the girls leave the Tower.

* * *

The bass of the music is thrumming through the club. You can feel the beat all the way to your bones, all fuzzy and making your heartbeat seem extra heavy. Lazily you swirl the straw in your soda, eyes wandering the sweaty crowd. Sharon and Natasha are discussing some gossip at SHIELD; you aren't bothering to pretend you hadn't heard it from Bucky two days earlier.

Your gaze drifts to a short woman with a bag in her hands. She looks more alert than the other patrons, a bag clutched in her hand and a dark expression. Your skin prickles.

It's probably nothing.

Frowning, you turn your attention back to Natasha and Sharon.

" - and then he  _said_  he didn't know that Hydra was funding the online store, but - "

"Wait," Natasha says, her eyes darting away from Sharon. You follow her eyeline - and so does Sharon - to a pair of bulky men at the back of the club. Blocking the exit. Guards to keep the underage out, understandable. To keep people from leaving? That's just basic fire code failure.

"There's a suspicious woman at the bar," you murmur, taking a sip of your drink. Natasha scopes that out next, while Sharon eyes the bathroom.

"Where's the bartender go?" Nastasha asks.

"I'll have a peek." Sharon stands, straightening her skirt and throwing back her hair a little before strutting through the crowd. She ignores the angry woman, throws a few drunk smiles around, and stumbles around a corner for the bathrooms.

Natasha frowns down at her watch - you gaze as she flips it on, and a few readings pop up on the tiny screen. She hits a few buttons. More data. Her frown deepens.

"There's been a cut in a power line near here," she states. "Police are investigating."

"Must be running on generator power," you comment. "That sounds pricey."

"I guess they really want people here."

A pretend sip this time - and Sharon starts stumbling back through the crowd. She sits, a little unsteadily with a giggle towards a man she bumped into on her way - but when there's relative privacy again, she leans close with an alert expression.

"The bartender is unconscious behind the bar," she whispers. "Blow to the head. Probably still alive."

"We should call the police," Natasha says, pushing a few more buttons.

"Might be too late," you say with a nod towards the angry lady. She's opening her bag now, and a complicated knot of electronics comes into view, flashing in the strobe lights. Then it starts to blink numbers. That's not good. Unless technology has taken several steps backward since you left SHIELD and that's just her mobile phone.

A gunshot cracks through the air, and a massive speaker explodes. The dancing crowd is showered in bits of plastic as screams break out. You swear and push your chair backwards, for shelter beneath the table as Sharon and Natasha do the same. Sharon already has a pistol out, and Natasha a portable taser stick. You have nothing. More gunshots ring out.

The angry lady has thrown her device in the air, and you stare, open mouthed at the monstrosity (seriously, why don't bomb makers ever have any sense of style?), as it arcs - and a bullet hits it midair, and the roar that follows is hot and bright.

* * *

Steve is snoring. So is Winifred, tucked in one of his arms.

Bucky yawns, trying to force his heavy eyes back on the cowboy movie. Rebecca is still fussing a little, and he taps her back absently as he holds a pacifier to her mouth. He's lucky Natasha isn't there - his feet are on the coffee table now, too. He wonders, idly, if you're having fun with the girls. A bit of drool drips down his flesh hand, but he doesn't care.

Someone in the movie gets shot, and Sam cackles a little.

"Man, I remember thinking the graphics were so great when I was a kid," Sam says. Glancing at Bucky with a grin. "But now they look so bad."

"Better than what I grew up with." Bucky shifts Becks in his elbow, and her big, shining blue eyes fasten on his face. He gives her a smile - and she smiles back. Not fussy anymore. Her tiny fist waves in the air, and lands on his chin. She bops him a few more times, and Bucky chortles.

"Did ya miss me?" he coos, earning a wide-mouthed grin. "Did you just wanna see your Daddy?"

"Don't say that, please," Sam groans.

Bucky glares - at Sam, not Rebecca. "Don't tell me what to do, Wilson."

"It just sounds wrong, man."

"I'm talking to a  _baby_. My own  _daughter_." Right on cue, Rebecca starts kicking her little legs, and jabs Sam in the thigh.

"Watch it, miss," Sam croons at her, reaching down to tickle one of her pajama-clad feet. "I don't wanna have to ban you from the couch 'cause you can't keep your feet to yourself."

"Good aim, Becks," Bucky tickles her plump cheeks with a smile. "Just like your Mama."

"See, that sounds much less weird…"

Steve gives a loud snort, shifting in his recliner. Eyes still closed. Freddie slumbers on.

There's a distant tickle in Bucky's ear; thinking it's just bad mixing from the movie, he ignores it, and keeps tickling Becks. She's huffing funny little baby laughs at him now - he sticks out his tongue, crosses his eyes, and she giggles.

"What's that sound?" Sam asks, after a moment.

"Dunno, thought it was the movie."

"Don't think so." Sam leans forward, and picks up the remote to mute the television.

The droning is much louder now; almost like an engine of sorts. Bucky wonders for a half-second if Tony is testing some new equipment (strange noises are exactly uncommon at the Tower), but then he remembers that Tony is in London for the weekend. Huh.

A light flashes in his eyes, and he blinks - swiveling his head, Bucky sees a few bright dots growing new, through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the common area. An airplane? Jet? But they're not slowing down.

"Steve!"

Steve jolts, automatically drawing Winnie to his chest protectively as he blinks blearily around - Sam stands slowly, frowning at the windows, and Bucky finally succeeds in sticking the pacifier in Rebecca's mouth.

"Alert," FRIDAY's voice says dryly from above. "Alert."

It's a jet. But it doesn't crash through the windows: it stops just short, and several dark figures jump from a launch pad, landing on the windows.

"Uh, defense mechanisms, FRIDAY?" Sam asks.

"Down for maintenance," FRIDAY replies. "Shall I alert Agents Romanoff and Carter, sir?"

"Er - best not to. Yet."

One of the figures is glowing as sparks begin to fly - apparently it's cutting through the glass. But no luck. Then it waves its hand, and the figures spring out of the way as the barrel of what's clearly a canon is lowered to point straight into the common area.

Steve and Bucky swear in tandem, jumping up and aside as Sam dives behind the couch. Bucky twists, giving his back to the impending explosion as glass sprays  _everywhere_. Rebecca is clutching the fabric of his shirt in her tiny fists, and his stomach knots in terror.

Then everything explodes.

* * *

You choke on thick black smoke - Sharon and Natasha are wheezing, but at least they're breathing - there are still weak screams sounding through the haze, and brisk footsteps.

The angry lady walks right past the table the three of you are huddled under. Something cold slips into your hand. A knife. From Natasha.

"Where is he?" the lady snaps. "I saw him right before the explosion - "

"Sorry, ma'am," says a male voice. "We're still searching."

"Search faster! The police will be here in four minutes."

A look is exchanged. Nat gives the signal. As one you, Natasha, and Sharon stand, knocking the table back and startling the lady and the guard speaking. Natasha goes for the guard, Sharon for the lady - and you spot a guard coming up behind through the haze of smoke and a barely-flickering blue strobe light. He's yours.

Shouts and grunts, but you ignore them. The guard you're facing starts to pull a gun from his jacket -

Nope.

You kick his hand away. He yelps, and tries to throw a punch - you duck, and under his arm you twirl the knife in your hands and stab briskly into his armpit. He howls, stumbling back.

He doesn't give up. It takes a kick to the knee, a jab to the throat, and a slice to the hamstring before he finally goes down. With the butt of the knife you strike the side of his head, and he finally stops moving.

When you turn, the second guard is in a headlock, his eyes rolled back. But against Natasha, he doesn't last much longer, and slithers to the floor as well. The angry lady is secured by Sharon and a pair of collapsible handcuffs, a cut above her eyebrow leaking bright red blood.

"It wasn't me!" she's saying, to which you arch a brow as you step dismissively over a guard. "I was paid to do this!"

"Oh, you were paid?" Nat says sardonically. "Then the police will let you go, I'm sure."

The lady snarls. The wail of sirens is drawing near. Good.

"Who were you looking for, anyway?" you ask. The lady presses her lips together, and you lift a brow. Surly people are not your favorite, especially when they indulge in domestic terrorism. "Have fun with the police," you add. "They're not as nice as we are."

"We are pretty nice, aren't we?" Natasha says, her voice a little smug. "Didn't kill anybody this time."

"Don't want to clog the lines to the ambulances."

"Very smart."

"I try to be." Idly you wonder if you should call Bucky and let him know what happened - nah, he'd only worry. The girls will be sleeping, and sometimes he forgets to turn the grandpa-level sound off on his phone…

The front doors of the club burst open, and several uniforms pour in. EMS are straight behind, and you scoot with Natasha and Sharon with the angry lady out of the way. The smoke is finally beginning to clear. You're positive you stink - might have to do something about that. But as you're considering it, the police chief approaches.

"Hello, Chief…" Natasha starts, eyeing his badge. "Watson. This woman is the one that detonated the bomb. She has two accomplices, in the dark shirts, there - " she points. "We would like to give our statements immediately so that the investigation can begin."

"Is that so," drawls Watson. "Ma'am?" he addresses the angry lady.

"Of course it's not true!" she splutters. "I'm a victim! I didn't do it! I - "

Natasha rolls her eyes. Sharon pulls her badge out from beneath her dress, and flips it open to Watson.

"Didn't know this was SHIELD business," he comments, studying the badge.

"It's not, unless the investigation yields information that makes it SHIED's business," Natasha says coolly.

"And why do you think I shouldn't take all of you in, huh?"

"If it weren't for us, those goons would have shot you as soon as you entered," you point out. "But if that's what you want...we  _can_ arrange it. It'll look good on your discharge papers. Shot by the Black Widow for being an absolute jerk."

Watson eyes you. Then back Sharon, and finally to Natasha. He visibly hesitates - maybe he finally recognizes her.

" **What're you going to do** , Chief Watson?" Natasha asks, levelling her gaze to his. " **Arrest me?** "

"That won't be necessary," he grumbles. "Fine. Thank you for your assistance. We have it from here. Sergeant Yates outside will take your statements."

"Thank you," Natasha chirps.

"Thank you," Sharon parrots.

"Thank you," you chime in, with a winning smile. Watson grumbles more, and takes the angry lady away.

Sharon sighs, twisting her leg slightly. "Aw, my heel broke. These were new shoes, too."

"As far as girls' nights go, this was not my worse," Natasha says.

"I smell," you say.

"What'll the boys say if we show up like this?" Sharon jokes - besides the broken heel, her dress is torn halfway up her thigh, there's blood on her knuckles, and a chunk of golden hair has fallen across her face from her updo. Not to mention the soot everywhere. Natasha looks no better - and likely neither do you.

"They'll never let us out again," you say wisely. "We should find a place to clean up."

"Won't they notice if we show up in different clothes?"

"Definitely not," says Natasha.

"Definitely not," you agree.

With Sharon limping, the three of you make for the building exit, to find Sergeant Yates.

* * *

Gunshots rattle the room, tearing up the couch in a flurry of feathers and fabric. Sparks as the television half-explodes, and Sam gives a shout. He has a gun in his hand from beneath the coffee table (no doubt you'll have some strongly worded baby-proofing advice for Tony, later), but Bucky is huddled behind a recliner, Rebecca in his arms.

Steve makes a dive for safety. Remarkably, Winnie still sleeping as Steve hands her off, and Bucky tucks her in his other arm.

"Get 'em out," Steve says briskly. "I'll cover you."

Bucky tilts his head back - he can see several figures - not people. If he had to guess, robots. Sam shoots one in the head, and it falls over. At least they're easy robots, then.

Steve leaps up and grabs a marble statue from a nearby bookcase. That one totally decapitates another robot, and Bucky seizes the chance to rush for the safety of the hallway.

With a wall shielding him from the action, the noise is much less overwhelming - he finally starts to breathe again, as panic makes his heart race.

Safe. Safe. Where will the girls be safe? It's not like Tony keeps a crib anywhere, and they'll just fall off a bed….no, they have to be contained. Breathing fast, Bucky stumbles to a stop, and turns down another hallway.

Bathroom. Bathtub. The faucets are too high for them to reach, and they won't be able to climb out. Bucky shifts his hold so that both girls are secured with his metal arm, and he yanks down several towels from a shelf to dump into the tub. There. Then he kneels, and gently drops Rebecca in, and lays Winnie to the side. She's still sleeping, a contented smile on her face.

But Rebecca - Becks gives Bucky that wide-eyed stare that always makes him feel so  _guilty_. Bucky gnaws on his lip. He can hear Steve shouting, and his blood is pumping with adrenaline. Becks just needs to be distracted while he goes to deal with the robots. A toy. Anything.

Bucky fumbles on the counter, and grabs a soap bottle. Rebecca accepts the offering, and starts hitting it on the floor of the tub. It'll do.

He scrambles out of the bathroom, and heads back to the fight.

Six robots lay on the ground, crunching under Bucky's boots as he picks up one of their guns. Several more are flooding in. Can't let them get further into the tower. Sam has a gun in each hand now, and Steve is using his fist. Slamming into robot faces before yanking off arms or legs or heads.

Idiot.

More robots are coming off the jet, and as Sam and Steve seem to have it in hand, Bucky goes for the heart. Two robots go down as they try to intercept him, one of which loses his gun. It feels familiar in Bucky's hands, and it's still loaded.. Some robots have explosives connected to them, so Bucky light-fingers one from a fallen mess of metal and wires, and yanks the pin to toss onto the launch pad of the jet.

"Get covered!" he yells back, and sees an armed robot making for the hallway beyond the common area. Bucky growls low in his throat. "Not my girls," he mutters, and takes falls with a hole in its head, and Bucky jumps behind the destroyed couch. Better than nothing.

The building shudders, and the scent of acrid burning makes Bucky sneeze. But it's quieter now, and as he peeks over, he takes note that there are none left standing, and the jet is falling away from the windows.

"Nice one!" Steve calls, from around a corner.

"Should've done that first!" Sam yells from behind a bookcase. "One of those bastards broke my thumb!"

"Oh, so sorry!" Bucky gripes back. "Sorry I saved your butt, Wilson. Sorry your manicure is ruined."

Steve is stepping out now - cautiously, as he surveys the gruesome scene in the common area. Bucky is already standing, throwing the gun to the side as he runs his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply.

"FRIDAY, please alert Tony that we were attacked," Steve says.

"Already sent him the footage, Captain Rogers. SHIELD are on their way."

Bucky steps across the carnage, then breaks into a run as he remembers the robot that nearly got through.

Down the hall, furiously frightened - but he yanks open the bathroom door, and Rebecca gurgles happily as she catches sight of him in the mirror. Bucky sighs in relief, and sinks to his knees beside the bathtub.

"Aw, yuck - I didn't think you'd eat that," he says in disgust, picking up the now-empty soap bottle between two fingers. "How about a bath, Becks?"

She giggles, and bubbles fall from her mouth. And remarkably, Winnie still slumbers on.

* * *

Your phone is ringing. Digging through your ruined clutch, your heart skips a beat to see Bucky's name on the screen - had something happened? Had he seen the news? - and you put it up to your ear.

"Bucky?"

"Hey babe. How's it going?"

"Alright." You trace a finger on the hem of your new dress. "Um...we had fun. We're gonna head back soon." As soon as Natasha is done having her hair washed. You three were lucky to find a salon open so late at night. But you all smell much nicer.

"Oh, good. Hey, I was gonna say - the girls were fussy tonight, so the boys and I took them out for a drive to get them to sleep. We ended back up at our place - mind meeting us there?"

"Nope. Nat drove us in the Viper, anyway. We'll be there in an hour."

"Traffic's real bad over by the Tower," Bucky says. Then a voice sounds on his end, and Bucky adds, "Steve and Sam want a ride back with Nat."

Laughing, you say, "I'm sure she won't mind, as long as Sam keeps his paws off the radio."

"I'll give him a heads up."

"On second thought - let him find out on his own."

Bucky is chortling as you hang up. You sigh a little, and inform the others of the change in plans. No real complaints. Not even that the evening had been ruined.

Driving through the city at Natasha's customary breakneck speed, you peer through the window, brows furrowed. There's an unusual amount of flashing lights and sirens...and not just near the club.

"Busy tonight," you comment. "That's the fifth police car I've seen in two blocks."

"Dispatch is going crazy." Sharon pokes her head between the two front seats. "Apparently there was a crazy robot attack uptown - "

"Ugh, don't start," Nat interrupts. "We're gonna hear all about it tomorrow. I don't want to have to sit through it twice, and you know how hard it is to convince Fury you don't need a debriefing."

Fury is affectionately slagged all the way out of the city.

City lights are traded for bright stars, and the peace gnaws in your chest the closer you get to home. Restlessly you tap your fingers on your knee. Poor Winnie and Becks. If they were fussy enough that Bucky took them on a drive...why had he taken Steve and Sam? And how on earth had he gotten Sam to agree?

All the lights are on in your house as Natasha parks the car. Steve and Sam are sitting on the porch waiting, and they greet you with smiles as you climb out of the car.

"What, a welcoming committee?" you tease. "Did Bucky put you up to it? I was only gone a couple hours!"

"Well, you know how Bucky gets," Steve says good-naturedly as he stands. "How was your night?"

"Um - uneventful. Yours?"

"The drive was pretty boring," Sam says, hopping down the steps. "Tin-man made me sit in the backseat between the two carseats."

You laugh, and bid Steve good night. Then the car is pulling away, and disappears into the night. Home at last.

Everything is quiet when you enter. Bucky strolls out into the entryway as you lock the door, a very fresh and cute Rebecca upright in his arms.

"Welcome home, babe," Bucky says, and with a grin leans down to kiss your cheek. Will he notice the smoke? Apparently not - his smile doesn't fade as he passes Becks off to you.

"Mmm, you smell so nice," you coo, nuzzling Rebecca's soft hair. "Did you get a bath, little girl?"

"Of course. She wanted to look her best for Mama."

"Looks like you got cleaned up, too," you tease - his hair is still damp. There's a distinctly shifty look in his eyes - but as you quirk a brow, he changes the subject.

"Winnie's fast asleep. Rebecca missed you too much to sleep, I think. I did too."

"Then I will put  _her_ to bed, and then I will put  _you_ to bed."

Bucky's lips curl, and he reaches behind you to flip off the porch light. "Is that the dress you were wearing earlier?" he asks, brows furrowing slightly.

"Um - sure."

It's a lie, and he'll know it. But explanations can wait until morning.


	26. You Bring the Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an Avengers pool party and Bucky just about combusts from jealousy. More than once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reverting back to the days when Bucky and 28 were still a secret..... ;)

Half-draped over a pool noodle, Bucky lets the current from Sam's cannonball drift him around. He's feeling too lazy and too hot and too moody to care; even when he gets splashed, Bucky barely has the energy to do more than glare at Sam.

"Cheer up, Tin man!" Sam calls, wiping the water from his eyes with a massive grin. "It's not every January we get to enjoy a hundred degree weather in the heart of New York City!"

It's true, but Bucky still isn't convinced. The idea of a warm getaway had sounded nice - if it was you and palm trees and  _not_  the rest of the team. Tony's special dome on the roof of Avengers Tower to keep the winter at bay? Not so much.

And you're not there yet.

The air in the dome is thick and humid. It's hard to breathe. And the reflection of the timid winter sun on the solar panels is making the interior  _so bright_  and  _so hot_  - Tony had warned everyone that they could still get burned. Distantly Bucky registers the prickling sting on his shoulder - well, one shoulder - but he'd rather be sunburned than frostbitten anyday. Burns heal faster. He knows this from personal experience.

Where  _are_ you, anyway?

Natasha and Clint are lounging on poolside chairs, sunglasses-ed and sunscreen-ed, chatting about something Bucky doesn't care about. Unless it's you. But it's not. Because he hasn't heard your name.

He sighs, kicking his feet in the water to start another lazy drag around the pool. A mistake - as soon as his back is turned to the general direction of the elevators, he hears your laugh. Oops. Without being conspicuous, Bucky drifts back around, his heart already beating strangely fast -

Wow.  _Wow_.

With a towel draped over your arm, sunglasses perched on your head, and a bottle of sunscreen in one hand - you wander towards where Natasha and Clint are sitting, Steve right behind you. That lucky bastard. Bucky suppresses the growl rising in his throat - how had Steve found you?

Your smile is brighter than any reflection of sunlight.

"Got your floaties, Steve?" Bucky calls out, drawing attention towards him. Your gaze  _burns_.

"Hey!" Steve protests.

"Unless you've learned to swim since 1944," Bucky adds charitably, grinning around. You start to laugh, everyone else joining in - poor Steve's face is as red as a brick. But Bucky made you laugh. Steve will live.

"I didn't know Steve can't swim," Sam says, paddling to the edge of the pool by the others. "Makes me rethink that mission in Hawaii Tony has planned next week."

"The mission isn't in the  _ocean_ ," Steve says, clearly miffed. "It's at a science lab."

"But think of how many things could go wrong," you tease him, sinking onto a pool chair by Nat, and drawing Bucky's gaze. "What if the bad guys escape in a 'copter and you get stuck trying to take them out, and you end up alone over the ocean? What if the lab complex has a pool and you trip and fall in it?"

Bucky laughs - you delight him so much - as Steve's color deepens even more.

"You know what," Steve says roughly, yanking his white t-shirt over his head. "I  _can_  swim. And I'll prove it to you all - " he points an angry finger around at everyone, " - right now."

"Oh no, call the lifeguard," Nat says dryly, not looking up.

"I'm not saving you," Clint says.

"Someone's gonna die," Bucky deadpans. He gets the darkest glare of them all from Steve - oh well - and Steve saunters right up to the edge of the pool and jumps awkwardly in. Everyone gets splashed, and Bucky spits out pool water.

"Yuck," he says.

"Thanks a lot, Steve," Natasha calls out, wiping drops from her face.

Steve, spluttering, surfaces. "So there," he chokes.

"Yikes." Sam swims over to Steve (likely for some remedial pointers), and Bucky is left eying you. Though you're not looking his way, he can sense a purpose in your motions as you squirt sunscreen into the palm of your hand. Up one arm, rubbing in - he's forgetting to breathe. You're  _glowing_  in the sunlight. And glistening. Although your swimsuit isn't as revealing as Natasha's, you're a thousand times sexier. Bucky's mouth is watering as you move onto your legs. Then he remembers to drift around, and he kicks off from the wall with a cough.

At least he's wearing sunglasses, too. Then no one will know where he's looking. Probably.

"Hey, Nat - can you do my back?"

Natasha! That lucky bastard. Bucky swallows a growl of jealousy - how come everyone seems to get you today, except for him? He would cut off his left hand - heck, his  _right_  hand - to get to spread sunscreen all over your body. Your face is tilted towards the sky, a little smirk on your face - oh, you  _know_  what you're doing to him. Bucky wets his lips, and growls for real this time.

"Thanks, Nat," you say, all airy and casual.

"No problem."

You settle back in the lounge chair, pulling out a book from beneath your towel. All this, and you're going to  _read_?

Bucky just might explode.

"Where is Tony, anyway?" Steve asks, coming up next to Bucky and his pool noodle.

"In his lab, I think," Bucky shrugs.

"He set up all this, and he's  _working_?"

"Sound like a Stark thing to do," Bucky says.

"Doesn't make it right."

"Go argue with Tony, then. I don't feel like it."

Steve eyes Bucky - Bucky tries  _really_  hard not to let his growing irritation (and other things) at you being so far away and untouchable show. Then Steve sighs.

"I don't feel like it either."

"Hey, but you're treading water like a champ," Bucky jibes, to change the subject.

Sam is laughing. "Hey, 28! Why don't you come teach Steve how to swim?"

You lower your book from your face - Bucky is staring, and your brow arches over your sunglasses. "You're thinking of Clint," you say dryly, lifting the book again. "He swam in high school."

"Then why aren't you in here, Barton?" Sam asks indignantly.

"Don't feel like getting wet today," is Clint's reply.

"I thought you swam for your school team," Steve says to you, over the growing voices.

"I did diving."

" _Diving_?" Sam interrupts, and his argument with Clint ceases. You lower your book again, sighing. "That's like, my second favorite sport to watch during the Olympics!"

"Yes, Wilson,  _diving_ ," you enunciate. "Don't you even try - "

"Hey look!" Sam points to the other end of the pool. "There's a diving board! Show us, 28! Come on! Show us!"

Your book closes with a snap. A haughty glare for Sam, but as you take off your sunglasses to set them aside, Bucky sees the mischievous twinkle in your eyes. Ugh _, he could just eat you up all day -_

A slow saunter to the diving board. You adjust the dials on the board for a more springy lift, and finally climb up. It's not a tall diving board, and there's a grin as wide as a field on Bucky's face as he watches. You shake out your legs and arms, taking a deep breath. Then two brisk steps, a jump, and a perfectly executed (as far as Bucky can tell) forward somersault and a straight dive into the water.

There's applause as you surface, a rueful smile on your face as you push your wet hair away.

"I'm out of practice," you say with a laugh. "But please - keep clapping. I like that." Bucky chortles as you swim towards the others.

"Finally, a fourth person!" Sam crows. "Now we can chicken fight."

"Chicken fight? What are we, twelve years old?" Steve gripes.

"You're just mad because you've always had to be on top," Bucky laughs.

"It's so true! I'd rather be on bottom - "

"Well, today's your lucky day, Star-Spangled Man with Plan," Sam says gleefully. "Super soldiers on bottom. It's me and 28, right here!" And he gives you a challenging glare and some karate hands, but you only laugh in return.

"I'll rock paper scissors you for Steve," you tease.

Bucky sniffs. You're just pretending, right? For everyone else's sake? So as not to be suspicious? He considers pinching you in retaliation - but the water's clear. Probably shouldn't.

"Aww, man," you groan, as Sam wraps your rock in his paper with a gleeful cackle. " _Fine._ "

"That's right, babygirl. Cap and Falcon - the unbeatable duo!"

"Well, make way for Agent 28 and the Winter Soldier," you sass back. "We're unbeatable, too."

"We'll see about  _that_."

Bucky tosses his pool noodle out - no need for that anymore - as you tread over to him with a new, special sort of look in your eyes. Had you lost the game on purpose? He'd like to think so - and grins as you stand in front of him. Bucky crouches instinctively.

Your wet leg swings around, and you plant yourself firmly on his shoulders. Bucky tries not to think about it as you shift your weight. He can smell you  _very_  well. All damp and warm and silky and smooth -

"I'm not hurting your shoulder, am I?" you ask, a little anxiety in your tone.

"Not at all, ba - er, partner." Oops. Sam is flexing his muscles in the sunlight, as Steve struggles to gain his balance below him.

"Okay," you murmur. "Let me know if it's uncomfortable." And you shift a little more - are you doing this on purpose? - and Bucky grips your knees to keep you steady. Then he yelps.

"Ouch! You're sitting on my hair!"

"Oh, sorry! Sheesh." You move your thigh. "You need a haircut, dude."

"Well, now's not really the time - "

"I have an extra hair tie. Hold still."

Bucky obeys. Your gentle fingers scrape up his hair, and tie it off in a knot at the top of his head. Better. Is this the hair tie you'd pulled from his hair yesterday morning in the gym? Probably.

"Count us down, Nat!" Sam hollars.

"You're gonna regret this," you tease Sam. "Bucky fights dirty."

"So do you," Bucky says testily, with a pinch to your calf. But you're laughing. Figures.

"Three," Natasha says in loud, bored voice. "Two. One. Go."

Bucky chokes on pool water in the first ten seconds. But an excellently-timed shove from you has Sam scrambling to stay on Steve - and Steve hobbling around with a panicked look in his eye.

"' _I can swim_ ,' my ass," Bucky taunts Steve. "You're a liar, Rogers."

More splashing, more choking, more laughing - more shoving and teasing and kicking and hitting - it's a violent chicken fight, all in all - Bucky's sure he's going to come out with bruises. But he's too busy enjoying himself, ganging up with you against Steve and Sam.

And Team 28 and Winter Soldier win, four dunks to two. Dirty fighting has its place - and that place is against Team Cap and Falcon.

"I'm beat," you huff at last, sliding down off Bucky's shoulders. "I don't have your stamina, you absolute maniacs."

Already Bucky misses your touch, the skin on skin, the warmth -

"I'm making drinks," Clint hollars from the bar, where he's standing in the shade. "Who wants one?"

"I think I'll take one to Tony," you call back. "I feel bad he's missing all this."

"I don't think he missed Sam's trunks falling down," Natasha says dryly as you climb out of the pool. Bucky is staring - and he quickly looks away with a swallow as his face burns.

He's already calculating how long he should stay in the pool before following you inside.

Four minutes and nineteen seconds after you disappeared into an elevator. Mumbling something about getting dehydrated, Bucky climbs out and picks up a towel to dry off. Sam is already talking about setting up a net for pool volleyball - does the man never tire?

"You're burned, Barnes," Natasha comments without moving her head. "There's aloe inside, if you need it."

"Er, thanks." Bucky tosses the towel aside. "Think I'll go grab a shirt."

Into the elevator - still smelling of you - and Bucky sighs all the way to the residential levels. Why do you have to be with  _Tony_? And what excuse can he make for dragging you out of the lab downstairs without making Tony suspicious?

The halls are dark after the bright sunlight in the dome above. Bucky shuffles along, and stalls in surprise as he hears a heartbeat coming from the cracked door leading into his bedroom.

Oh.  _Oh_.

With a smile growing on his face, he pushes open the door with one hand, arching a brow to see you lying on his bed, stomach down, with your nose in the book he keeps on his bedside table. Then you lower the book, and smirk back.

"Oh, hello," you say casually. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Didn't you?" Bucky asks lightly, closing the door behind him. And locking it. Has he thought yet how attractive that swimsuit is? And how wonderful and perfect you look in his bed?

"Tony is asleep," you deadpan. "Dead asleep over a lab table. So I looped the cameras to make it look like I'm down there - and decided to pay you a visit."

"You didn't know I'd come."

"I planted a little idea in Natasha's head. Told her how red you look. Figured you'd escape inside, especially if I'm not out there anymore." The conniving grin on your face has Bucky  _howling_ with laughter. It's just you, isn't it? Exactly what you would do. His heart is swelling in his chest as you prop yourself on your knees with a glint in your eyes, tugging in close by the strings on his swim trunks.

"Now," you murmur, as his face draws near. "Let's see about celebrating that victory of ours."


	27. The Milan Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend of Stark’s requests security during Milan Fashion Week - not Bucky’s first choice. You change his mind. (pre-reveal)

The first thing Bucky notices about Stark's Milan penthouse, is that there are  _no_  doors.

Well, there's a door to the bathroom. But there's not a single bedroom - the main part of the loft is open and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and a set of glass stairs lead up to a balcony where a half-dozen bunks are lined up neatly, beds made and looking pristine.

Bucky hates it.

"Are we serious about this right now?" Sam blurts, rolling his suitcase in as he stares at the balcony. "Because I did  _not_  come prepared to listen to Steve snoring for the next four nights."

"I don't snore," Steve protests, walking in behind Sam. He takes a look at the sleeping arrangements, and grimaces.

"Wear ear plugs," Tony says from the open kitchen, where he's mixing himself a drink. "All the hotels are booked for fashion week - this is all we got last minute. For the record, it's normally just a king-sized bed up there, because Pep and I don't usually invite guests to our vacation homes. If you don't like the bunks, we can switch it out and get sleeping bags."

"Oh, a sleepover!" Your gushing voice enters the penthouse next, trailed by Natasha. Bucky presses his lips together as he runs his fingers through his five-hour-flight hair, wanting to joke with you but feeling rather constrained in the setting.

So much for mission sex.

"I don't believe you for a minute," Nastasha slides her sunglasses up on her face, arching a brow at Tony. "If you wanted to get us hotel rooms, you could have."

"Maybe," Tony says with a sly shrug. "But this is like a team-building activity. Six adults, one bathroom. If we can make it through this, we can make it through anything."

"So no hot dates, Sammy," you tease, wandering over to admire the city view. "A city chock full of models, and you're on a chastity leash."

"Aw, c'mon, 28," Sam protests, as Natasha sniggers and even Bucky cracks a smile. That open bar Tony has stocked is looking mighty fine. "Where's your imagination?"

You turn, back to the windows as you send Sam a sly smile - your eyes flicker to Bucky. There's a funny feeling in the region of his stomach, and he smiles back.

"I wonder," you say woefully.

"This place is tiny," Natasha reports, measuring her strides from one wall to the next. "Are you even allowed to have six people here?"

"You don't call the fire marshal on my penthouse, and I won't call the police on those knives you snuck through security," Tony deadpans, taking a sip of his drink.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Anyways, we'll have a briefing tomorrow morning from my friend," Tony adds, striding around the bar and into the living space. You're still standing there, arms crossed, and Bucky fancies that you've been admiring his behind. Makes him wanna wiggle it, just to hear you laugh. Can't do that here. "Then we start our patrols in the evening. White tie, remember."

Bucky remembers. He'd packed the tuxedo Stark had made him buy two years ago when he'd first joined the Avengers.

"This place is whack," Sam complains. "What's the use in keeping an eye on bad guys if I'm being suffocated by a bow tie?"

For once, Bucky agrees with Sam.

"I don't remember you telling us white tie," you interrupt, attention now on Tony as a little frown forms between your brows. Still cute. "I brought my normal gear."

 _If we'd packed together like we normally do, I could've reminded you_ , Bucky thinks, but doesn't say.

"Milan Fashion Week has strict dress codes," Stark explains. "All security is in Armani, minimum."

"Does Pepper keep a suit here I could borrow?" you ask.

"No, because when I bring Pepper to Milan, she's not on duty."

Bucky sees Steve's face pinch and his ears turn bright red all the way across the room - and the temptation to laugh is quickly smothered into a cough.

"Come on, 28, we can go shopping," Natasha suggests. "Scope out the town. Rustle up some food. Leave these bozos in this shoebox to smell each other's breath."

"Excellent idea." Your smile is beaming. Bucky feels like scowling - losing you already? Not fair. And he's stuck with Steve and Sam and Tony - even worse. He doesn't support this idea, not one bit.

He supports it about fifty minutes later, when his phone dings and he gets a text from you: a picture taken in a fitting room, involving a red dress that shows off your legs and thigh holster - a little coy smile on your face, as if daring him in some way or another.

Bucky coughs, nearly launching himself off the couch where he's been lounging since you left. His face feels like it's burning. Quickly he shuts off the screen, and tucks it back in his pocket.

"So, long story short, he fixed up my jacket and I gave him a bottle of whisky, and we've been friends ever since," Tony explains of his friend Auernon. "Gave him a ref to get into fashion school, and so here we are. It stands to reason he would call upon an old friend when those bomb threats started rolling in…"

Bucky's phone dings again. He's gonna have to silence it. But curiosity overwhelming his caution, Bucky pulls it out of his pocket ever so slightly, staring at the picture that pops up. A teal dress this time, one that flows to the floor but shows off your shoulders. That  _smirk_  in the mirror - to die for. You know what you're doing. He gulps thickly.

"Sorry," he mutters, aware of Steve's eyes on him. Quickly he shuts off the sound, adjusting the way he's sitting ever so slightly as he pretends to be interested in Tony's story.

The phone vibrates another half-dozen times. A velvet burgundy suit, with a slit in the white blouse down to your navel. A gold ball-gown, regretfully captioned with _'can't take down bad guys in this.'_  An emerald green number that's Bucky supposes is meant to look old-fashioned, with a bright-pink petticoat showing beneath the hemline. It makes his mouth water, thinking of getting his head beneath that skirt…

Anyway, Bucky didn't listen to a word of the conversation.

Six hours later and the skyline is getting dark, Stark has ordered a dozen pizzas (ten and a half of which are gone), and you and Natasha finally return. There's a bustling of bags and packages, and giggles, and when you stride into the kitchen to dump a tower of boxes on the counter, a complaint:

"You guys only saved us anchovies?" you protest. "Rude."

"Double rude," Natasha agrees. "Would be a shame if those fishes slithered into certain pillows, tonight."

It's been long enough since your last photo that Bucky is comfortable enough to stand - which he does, carrying his plate into the kitchen as he eyes you up and down. There had been no indication which dress you had bought - and by the sparkle in your eye as you meet his for the tiniest moment, Bucky can't help but feel a sliver of anticipation.

"Sheesh, you buy enough to outfit the entire team?" Sam asks, refilling his drink as he pokes around some boxes.

"Nope. White tie at a fashion show is no joke," you inform him.

"That's true," Natasha says. "Just don't tell the Depression Grandpas how much you spent. We'll be up all night arguing economics and moralities."

"Since we'll all be up all night listening to Steve snore, anyway," you joke.

Bucky leans over, trying to peer into a bag - but you reach over and snap it shut.

"Nice try, Barnes," you way warningly. "But that's  _private_."

He  _likes_  the sound of that.

"Did you call me a 'depression grandpa'?" Steve asks with a frown, moving towards the kitchen as well. "What's that supposed to mean, Nat?"

"Only that you're stingy."

"Cheap," you add.

"Obsessively frugal."

"Miserly."

"Niggardly," Sam offers, and the room silences. At the confused glances his way, he shrugs. "What? It's a word. I went to college."

"28 spent nine hundred euros on her dress alone," Natasha informs the group at large.

"Nat! I told you not to tell!" you protest, but you're laughing at the general shocked outcry. Now Bucky  _has_  to see the dress - it had better be worth it.

"Was that really necessary?" Steve asks, brows furrowed. Bucky answers in his head:  _yes_ , and he hasn't even seen the dress yet.

"Wow, even I'm shocked," Sam says.

"When in Milan," Tony calls over from the living area. "Nice work, 28. I look forward to seeing it."

"At least  _someone_ 's supportive," you say tartly, sending Steve and Sam (and Natasha) all severe glares. Then your eyes land on Bucky - he quirks a brow, ready. "And doesn't Grandpa Two have any reprimands for me?" you ask sweetly. Bucky interprets this as, " _Did you like the pictures I sent?"_

"Several," he says, when in fact meaning,  _"Thanks for the public boner, babe."_

Your smile stretches across your face as Sam starts to snicker.

"You could've fed three families with that cash for a year in my time," Bucky begins. His intended response:  _"I just wanna eat you up right now."_

"Times have changed," you point out, and he sees the glint in your eyes:  _"I wouldn't complain in the slightest."_

"Still could've done something better with that money. Donated it. Saved it." Bucky is grinning, hoping you hear the hint: " _When are you gonna let me take it off of you?"_

"I suppose," you allow. "But I needed a dress, and now I have something to wear to all future work functions." Oh, he loves this playing. He knows  _exactly_  what you mean.

_" Anytime."_

Bucky is  _so_  ready. To show you how much he enjoyed those pictures, to wrap his fingers around Tony's throat for booking lodging with no freaking doors.

"Can we see it, at least?" Sam asks.

You grin, and pick up the boxes to take up the stairs. "You're gonna have to wait for the mission, Wilson."

Oof. Bucky doesn't like that. Without any privacy, he's going to have to wait, too.

He  _hates_  this mission.

The next evening's security set-up at the catwalk doesn't lessen Bucky's disgust. Sam was right about the bowties - Bucky is sliding his index finger beneath his collar every ten seconds just to try to get some air. Not that the air is any good, anyway; it stinks like too many people and too much perfume. There's sweat on the back of his neck, and the com device in his ear isn't staying put. He can still hear Stark's voice, though. Hard to ignore, unfortunately.

 **"Can we please try not to kill anyone today?"** Tony sounds peeved. "I know you're scowling, Barnes. This is my friend's first show and no one wants a bomb."

 **"Well, you're no fun,"** Natasha says sardonically. "You mean I don't get to use my knife for anything more exciting than cutting grapes?"

"I want a bomb," says your voice, stationed somewhere else. Bucky suppresses a sigh. "I haven't seen a single suspicious person. This is boring."

"Keep your eyes up, 28," Tony barks. "No jokes."

"Wow, this must be serious," Natasha says dryly. "Stark can't take a joke. Oh wait - he never can."

There are grumbles from Sam in agreement. A trace smile flicks at Bucky's lips - but he continues to stand stoically, eyes on the opposite wall as frivolously dressed models and uptight makeup and hair artists follow them around. There's at least four people crying; someone is shouting, and he's pretty sure that girl that just walked past in towering heels has a sprained ankle. Too late to back out of the show, though.

"Aerials are clear," Sam reports.

"Parking and valet are clear," Steve next.

"Sitting in the audience is the most boring job," Natasha states.

"Once I finish with Auernon, I'll swap you," Stark says.

"Basement is clear," you say.

"Backstage is terrible," Bucky mutters, hopefully not loud enough that anyone near him can hear.

"I'll trade with you, Tin-man," Sam jokes. "I'll take models over electricians."

"Let Bucky stay," you insist. "He needs a date more than you do, Sammy."

Wow. Just,  _wow_. Bucky's face is burning, but he's struggling to suppress a smile, too. "I can get a date on my own, thanks," he growls, and there are snickers audible from Sam and Nat. And you.

"Which means he won't," Steve clarifies.

"Ten minutes to showtime," Stark snaps. "Stop bantering and do your jobs." There's a fizzle, and a click. Stark has left the conversation.

"Wow, tetchy much?" Natasha snarks.

There's static in Bucky's ear - he winces, and then your voice, whispered, comes through: "I got us a different frequency, Buck. We're muted to the team."

"Wow," he murmurs back, impressed. "You must be bored if you're fiddling with electronics."

"And  _you're_ having such a great time, huh?"

"No. I miss you," Bucky says, and his voice is petulant - he doesn't care. The night before had been awful; not just Steve's snoring and Sam's sighing and tossing and turning and Stark's annoying watch lighting up practically the entire loft - but Bucky had been able to watch your bunk all night, but powerless to do anything. Not even to  _say_  anything. Yes, he's grumpy - and he's not even sorry.

"Oh, baby," you sigh. "Don't worry about that. The show's about to start."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You'll see."

Bucky likes the sound of that - and he's smiling like a dope as models run off last minute towards the blaring music and flashing lights of the state. There's still crying from inside the make-up room. It's making his head hurt.

A voice can be heard from the main stage area now, jabbering in Italian over the speakers. Bucky doesn't care to listen, so he doesn't. Absently he turns to walk down the hall, peer down a corridor, take note of no bombs, and return to his place.

Boring. Completely boring.

No, not boring at all - exciting! Enticing! Captivating! Bucky's jaw drops as he catches sight of you moving down the hall towards him, shaking back your coiffed hair as your lips curl into a smile. Forget the show. Forget the mission. This.  _This_.

You had  _not_  sent him a picture of this particular dress - Bucky would've remembered it. Dark blue and glittering like stars with glitter all over - or whatever fashion people use to make dresses glitter - swooshing on the ground and showing off at every other step...a  _slit_  on the side, showing off your leg, and which goes…

...all the way up to your hip.

Bucky is drooling by the time you pause in front of him, his clasped hands covering his crotch and your eyes sparkling brighter than the glitter. Hands on your hips, and he drags his eyes away from the skin of your thigh. You must be wearing the holster on your other leg...he wants to find that out first hand.

"Worth a thousand dollars?" you purr.

"A million," Bucky says, his voice thick and rough. "I want my head under there so bad - "

"Bucky!" you interrupt with a laugh. "Save it for when we're alone."

"And when will that be?" he growls back. "Stark's dumb penthouse - "

But you don't give him a chance to finish that rant - winding your fingers through his, you arch a brow in challenge and start to lead him down the hall away from the show.

Yep. Forget the mission.

"I've had a chance to scope things out," you say over your shoulder with a grin. "Security here is pretty pathetic."

"Not surprised," Bucky says, but he doesn't want to talk about security. He's watching how you swerve and sway and sparkle and he wants his hands all over you about five minutes ago -

A metal door. You punch in a key code - and it swings open.

"Supply closet," you whisper, dragging him inside and it clangs shut. "All the seamstresses have been sent off to the next designer. We're safe here, for about twenty minutes. 'Til the end of the show."

Bucky is tracing around the curve of your waist and hips - not as smooth as your skin, but that  _dress_. "Enough time," he mutters, dipping his head to nip at the soft flesh of your neck and throat.

"Bucky…" It's a sigh, and makes heat rush through his middle. His favorite noise in the world. "Don't mess up my dress. I spent big money on this."

"My reckless girl." He trails hot kisses up your jaw, loving the way your softness melts into his arms. "Spending so much money on something that can get ripped up."

"Buck, don't you dare!"

"I was speaking generally."

Your eyes are sparkling as he pulls away, grinning at your beaming smile. His metal hand slides between that slit in your skirt, and he nearly groans at how hot and smooth your thigh feels.

"Babe," he says huskily, lips ghosting over yours as he tastes your breath. The tips of his fingers find lace blocking his way, and he nearly growls again.

"Bucky," you coo back, your own hands tracing a pattern along the lapels of his jacket before moving lower. And lower. And finding his very apparent reaction to your appearance. Sucking in a breath, Bucky finds that his blood is rushing almost unbearably hot, his vision tunnelling. Without thinking he gives the lace a tug, and it snaps apart in his fingers as you blink in surprise.

"Bucky!" you say, scolding now even as you laugh. "I didn't bring a spare pair."

"Don't care." He tosses the ruined underwear over his shoulder, and steps forward until your back is against the concrete walls, eyes daring, and his thigh between your legs.

"So much for going fast," you tease. "You could be here all night, huh?"

"Yup. You too?"

"Uh huh." You slide down the zipper of his trousers, eyes never leaving his as he twitches painfully.

"Without messing up our clothes?" Bucky grumbles.

"We'll manage," you promise, your breath hot on his lips. That's enough for him - he dives back in for a kiss, tongue tracing yours as he pushes back the rest of your skirt, tracing up your thigh holster as his throat closes over entirely.

"Babe," he grunts, and as his trousers are pushed down to his knees, he hoists you up around the hips so that your feet are dangling, and your lip is caught between your teeth as your legs wrap around his waist.

"You really do like my dress, don't you?" you purr, eyes all dark in the dim light. "Show me, Bucky. Show me how much you want me; how much it kills you we can't be alone in the penthouse."

A challenge. He likes that.

A little more roughly now, your back is pressed against the wall as Bucky guides himself into your already wet, heated core. His legs nearly gives out - but with a grunt he thrusts inside, and your eyes flutter shut with a whisper of a moan. Then the worst possible sound reaches his ears, and your eyes pop back open.

_R - i - i - i - p._

Horrified, Bucky looks down - the slit hovering to your waist now where your skirt is riding up, is about an inch longer than it was earlier. He can see three or four popped seems, and he swallows.

"Bucky."

"Shh." He buries his face into your sweet-smelling neck, rocking into you as your thighs tighten around his hips. "I'll buy you a new one, babe."

A husky laugh from your throat, turned to a lengthy moan as Bucky speeds up. Can't really help it, at this point.

"You sure you wanna spend money on that?" you gasp, fingers tight on his collar.

He manages somehow to choke out, "I only spend money on necessities. And you, in this dress, is more important than oxygen right now."

Bucky is sounding like a clumsy idiot, he knows - but your giggle in his ear is worth it. Then there's no more energy for teasing; he's about ready to explode, and your breasts are heaving as you breathe, sharpening and growing louder and -

This time, his legs really do give out - with a grunt and a curse, Bucky's arm tightens around your waist as he falls to his knees, dragging you down the wall as you laugh. Figures. But he's spent and a little drained, and doesn't move for minute. No, he's happy to taste the salty arousal on your throat, careful to leave no marks, as you pulse around his extra-sensitive bits, your fingers caressing the back of his neck, his ears, his jaw…

"Bucky…" a sigh, and your lips are on his cheeks. He grunts in response - he can hear the distant clamor of the show, but he doesn't care one bit. Even if someone were to walk in right at that moment, he wouldn't be the least bit bothered - unless it was Sam, of course. Bucky would not be ashamed for anyone else to know how lucky he is to have the best girl in the world, who wants  _him_. Anyway, they'd probably be jealous, anyway.

"My dress," you say mournfully after a few more moments, and regretfully Bucky pulls away from sniffing your hair, and examines the damage.

It's really not bad. The slit is just higher than it's meant to be, and without your underwear, a little _too_  revealing. Well, a lot, in Bucky's opinion. No one else needs to see you but him. He frowns as bit as he smooths over the torn seams before holding out a hand to help you to your feet.

"Wait," he says, a sudden idea striking. Hurriedly he tugs back up his trousers, striding over to one of the many shelves. It takes only a half-second to find what he needs, and belt hanging loose, he kneels down in front of you and yanks a needle and some dark blue thread from the little case.

"Didn't know you could sew," you tease, and he pokes the thread through the needle.

"Used to repair my own clothes all the time," Bucky replies easily. "Ma made me start doing it when I was eight. Got sick of reattaching buttons and fixing skidded knees. Then in the army, didn't have much choice if I didn't want a brisk Russian breeze 'round my privates."

"Well, it's kind of you to make amends for ruining my dress."

Bucky snorts, tugging the seams back together as you stand absolutely still. It's an easy repair - only takes about two minutes until you're appropriate covered again, and he smirks in satisfaction. And then slides the skirt aside again, to kiss your soft thigh several times in further amends.

"Hey," you half-protest, laughing softly as he moves closer to your center - he doesn't even care that you're still hazy and loopy. He could drink you up all day.

"You wear this dress, you'd better be ready for me," Bucky says matter-of-factly. "This is  _serious_."

" _So_  serious."

You're salty on his tongue, and your voice sweet in his ears and Bucky is sure his trousers are gonna get a little dirty on the knees but he doesn't care, and -

He pulls away, licking his lips as he tilts his head to listen. Already you've stiffened, a hand on his shoulder for support as the tromping sound of several heavy bootsteps are heard outside the door.

"Doesn't sound like models," you whisper. Bucky is already doing back up his belt as he stands.

"Finish later?" he asks lightly, as blaring alarms start to sound, along with shouts and screams. Your lips curl into a feral smile, and you whip back your skirt to tug out your little pistol.

"I'll hold you to that, Barnes. Bad guys first."

Bucky smirks, and yanks open the door.

* * *

It's a sunny morning at Avengers Tower two weeks later; you've been enjoying a lazy breakfast with Natasha (Bucky is in the gym, unfortunately), when one of the peons from downstairs comes up the elevator with a massive white box, wrapped in pearl-sheened ribbon and a tidy, though enormous bow.

"That must be for me," Natasha says, hopping down from her stool at the kitchen bar.

"Agent 28," the peon says, reddening slightly.

Oh! A surprise. You stand to take the box from the peon, who is breathing heavily as they return to the elevator. A smile tugs at your lips as you give the box a once-over.

"They scan for bombs and other tech downstairs," Nat informs you.

"A perk of living here, really," you joke, tracing your fingers over the ribbon. "That and all the pizza Stark buys."

Natasha peers over your shoulder. "Well, what is it? Let's see."

"I really don't know," you admit. "Wasn't expecting anything."

With a swoosh and a swipe, the knife at your waist has cut through the ribbon. Absently you push it away, sliding the knife back into its holster. The lid slides up easily, and a crinkle of tissue paper makes your heart skip a beat as Natasha gasps.

Folded neatly beneath the layers of tissue - burgundy layers of chiffon and silk with a high-end brand stitched into the nape of the neck. Very impressive. As your heart begins to hammer in your chest, you bite your lip and tug out a thin white card tucked inside the blouse. Typed in 12-point Arial font, probably on any old computer, reads:

_Amends._

You laugh.


	28. Married in Moscow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-relationship reveal - Sent to Moscow on a mission pretending to be half of a honeymooning couple - Bucky finds being in a city of his past more distressing than he expected. But fortunately, you’re there now, too.

"So, mission reevaluation," Tony says blandly, as Natasha glowers up at him from the hospital bed. "Sorry, Nat. We can't put it off six weeks for you to heal."

"Should've smelled this coming," she grumbles.

Tony coughs, and the rest of the room shifts awkwardly, Bucky included. He's glad he's not on the receiving end of that glare. "Anyways," Tony adds. "I was thinking 28 should go with Bucky. That way we can keep the cover. It'll be a shame to lose a native speaker, though."

"Vat are you talking about?" you chime in, in a horrible impression of a Russian accent. Natasha visibly flinches - and even Bucky cringes as Sam snickers. "I can do  _Russian_."

Tony snaps his fingers in your direction. "No, you can't. Luckily you have other skills."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," Bucky says. Steve is rearranging an arrangement of flowers at Natasha's bedside. Everyone else, crowded around the foot of her bed, shifts again. "And not just because of the accent." A sidelong glance shot at you - his lips are twitching. You suppress a smile as Bucky continues, "I can do this mission alone, Stark. It'll be easier that way."

"Besides," Clint adds as Tony considers this. "You'd probably be recognized in Moscow, Nat."

"Oh, please!" she snaps, itching furiously beneath the cast above her knee. "I can blend in.  _He_  has just as much chance of being recognized as I do."

"Doubt it," Bucky says.

"Doubt it," Stark agrees. "Barnes, I'm keeping 28 on the mission. We already have the IDs ready to go - your cover is getting a wife whether you like it or not. Ed has to have his Eva."

"Ooo," you say, rising from the plastic chair where you'd been sitting by the window. "Sounds like fun,  _hubby_." The look Bucky sends you could have melt steel - but you're just trying not to laugh as Sam snickers. "It's a long flight," you coo at Bucky, nudging his arm as he shifts awkwardly beside you. "You can teach me some Russian."

"Not that long a flight," he mumbles.

"Hey, if you don't wanna do it, I'll volunteer," Sam says, sticking a hand in the air. Bucky growls under his breath - but it's unlikely anyone heard it but you.

"I don't doubt your Russian is worse than 28's," he snaps, withdrawing from the group. Eyes follow him as he stalks from the room, and Bucky pauses. "Men's room," he offers, and disappears. The door clicks shut behind him. Steve gives a exaggerated sigh, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"I'm glad I'm not going on this one," he remarks. "Moscow's cold this time of year."

"Moscow's cold all year 'round," Clint corrects.

"What a time to break a leg," Natasha grumbles.

"I'll go get you a refill," you offer, reaching over to snatch Nat's empty coffee cup.

"Thanks," she says absently. Exchanging a quick grin with Sam, you duck out of the room and into the silence of the hospital corridor. A distant murmur of beeping machines, lowered voices. How long will Nat have to stay at the hospital? Not as long as the mission will take, most likely…

Your steps are meandering, the coffee cup loose in your fingertips. Eyes darting from side to side, you slow slightly as a smile creeps up your face - right on a cue, a tapping comes from the inside of one of the custodial closet doors. A quick glance up and down the hall to make sure no one's watching, and you yank the handle to twist inside.

The light isn't on, but you can hear his breathing. Crossing your arms, you quiz, "You're just pretending not to want to be paired with me for this mission, right?"

A huff of laughter from the dimness - and you can see the glint of Bucky's teeth in a grin. "What do  _you_ think, babe?" he asks, voice raspy. His hands come up to your elbows, and you roll your eyes.

"I think you're laying it on a little  _too_ thick for Sam," you tease. His breath is warm on your face as his leans closer. But a kiss doesn't come - his nose brushes against yours, and he sucks in a breath.

"I just…" he starts to say, then stops. His fingers are tight on your upper arm, and you wait. "I just...don't know what ghosts are waiting for me in Moscow," Bucky admits at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to drag you into my mess."

"Hmm." Your eyes close briefly - he's really too intoxicating for his own good - as your legs shake like jelly, you give a little sigh and force yourself to keep Bucky's bright blue gaze. "You're my mess now, Buck. Whatever's waiting for you, we'll deal with it."

Silence - and a sharp intake from Bucky as his lips ghost yours.

"I can tell you what's waiting for you," you add, keeping a giggle at bay. "For us." Natasha's coffee cup drooping from your fingers, you wind your arms around Bucky's neck as he quirks an expectant brow. "A furnished apartment," you sigh. "Unlimited funds. Time apart from the team."

"Uhhh…." Bucky's eyes close, an expression of bliss overtaking his features. "I'm already half-seduced."

"You're too easy, Barnes," you tease. "Make it a challenge sometime, why don't you?"

He chortles. "I love you, you know that?"

"And you're going to send me the mission files so I can brief myself before we leave?"

A long-suffering sigh. " _Yes_ , babe."

"That's Eva Billy to you, Ed Scully _._ " Your hands wander south, and give his bum a pinch - he yelps, but you keep him in place with a dazzling smile. "I look forward to scoping out all your old stomping grounds."

"At least one of us is," he gripes, but he's smiling. He dips his head again, and this time the kiss follows through.

* * *

The apartment in Moscow is in a ritzy part of town; the target being who the target is, it's not surprising. Hauling two suitcases down the bright hallway behind you, Bucky sucks in a breath of the faintly-petrol tinged air, coming in through a crack in a window, and tries not to think about it.

March in Moscow. Not exactly where he wants to be.

You stick a key in the door, and it swings open.

"Not bad," you say, and Bucky shoulders through the entrance behind you. "For a love nest." You throw a smirk over your shoulder, and Bucky bangs his elbow against a wall and drops a suitcase.

"Ow," he grumbles.

"Ouch," you remark, throwing open some blinds. "I'm sure there's a first aid kit around here if you need me to play a little nurse - "

"I'm fine," Bucky cuts across. He kicks the door shut behind him, and then eyes you across the room. That smile. He doesn't trust you for a minute, and his narrows his gaze. "How are you so happy?" he grouches.

"Why not?" you counter. "I enjoy missions, and I like spending them with you. This is gonna be a cushy job."

"Speak for yourself," he says under his breath, but smiles back, because you're walking across the living room towards him, and he's prone to forgetting whatever his complaints are when your hands are on his face and he can taste your breath. Bucky lets out a shuddering sigh, and his arms wrap around your waist.

"Just think of it," you coo, and he's drowning in your eyes. "Sam's in New York. No one's watching us. We have  _all_  the time in the world."

"Yeah, until we have to go mine all that data - "

"Shush." Your fingers pinch his lips shut, and Bucky quirks an amused brow. "We'll worry about that when we come to it," you grin. "Until then, we have a cover to set up."

"Newlyweds," he mumbles between his clamped lips.

"And if that doesn't sound like some regular old fun," you purr, your thumb now tracing his bottom lip. "I don't know what does."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"So. How about we go to that indoor market we passed on our way over and rustle up some nutritional sustenance for the next few days? Because even newlyweds have to eat."

"You drive a hard bargain, babe," Bucky teases, tucking his hands in the back pocket of your jeans. Your eyes are twinkling.

"It'll give me a chance to practice my Russian on the babushkas."

"Don't," he groans. "Remember? You're the American ex-pat, I'm the returning Marine…"

"Which should've been swapped, really - "

Bucky rolls his eyes again, and you laugh.

It's dark outside when you and Bucky finally return to the quiet apartment - days don't last long in Russia, even in the waning of winter. You're both stuffed to the brim with  _chebureki_ but  _so_  satisfied. You collapse in the couch while Bucky stocks the fridge with the groceries (he's particular about that sort of thing), and when you hear the ringing of an incoming call, you groan.

"Bucky," you call out, pulling your phone from your coat pocket. "Stark's calling."

"Tell him we're on our honeymoon and hang up."

"Nice try," you laugh. "But that was  _his_  idea."

"I don't care."

How very testy of him. You lay your phone on the glass coffee table and the projection hovers in the air. Stark, Steve and Sam, huddled around whatever device Stark is using.

"Glad to know you made it safe," Tony begins, a little frown between his brows. " _Finally_."

"Oh, did I forget to report? Sorry about that," you say with a smile, not feeling very sorry.

"Where's Bucky?"

"Enjoying our honeymoon."

Steve's red face is visible even through the projection. It's impossible not to laugh, and you're clutching your achingly full belly as Bucky stalks back in, scowling at you.

"Pervert," he mumbles, and collapses onto the couch beside you. "Hurry up, Stark. I haven't got all night."

"That's right," Sam cuts in. "The lovebirds have  _other_  business."

You roll your eyes - Steve's blush deepens.

"Don't pretend you're not jealous, Wilson," Bucky snarks.

"He can't help it," you say with a sigh, giving Bucky's thigh a pat. "Everyone's jealous of  _me_. Pretty much always. Especially when I get to cozy up with the Winter Soldier."

Bucky pinches your hand.

Sam's face moves closer to the screen, wide grin in place. "Are you still in your coat, 28? It's can't be  _that_ cold!"

"It's not," Bucky reports, and you pinch him back. He doesn't even flinch. "She didn't even take if off when we were inside the market - I was sweltering by all the food stands, and she was shivering like some lost puppy out in the cold."

Forget the pinching. You draw your hand away from his leg, and give the back of his head a gentle swat as Sam guffaws. Even Stark and Steve are laughing.

"By the way, I have an issue," you say loudly, glaring at Bucky out of the corner of your eye. "Why is there only one bed? Did you  _want_  Bucky sleeping on the couch?"

"You're newlyweds," Stark reminds you with a hint of exasperation. "Why would newlyweds stay in a two-bedroom hotel room? Doesn't make sense."

"Besides, you have to convince the neighbors of your cover," Sam's grin is only getting wider, if at all possible. "If there aren't noise complaints, you've failed."

Steve buries his face in his hands. Bucky is gaping, shocked - but you can't help it - you laugh.

"Now I know you're  _definitely_ jealous," you tease Sam.

"Oh, yeah," Sam nods. "Totally. Definitely. Nothing says 'a great mission' better than a grumpy Tin-man and winter in Russia."

"It's spring," Bucky insists.

"It's like, zero degrees," you say dismissively.

"We called for a  _reason_ ," Stark says loudly, and the remainder of the joking around is stalled. "Your target is attending the Moscow Ballet tomorrow evening, and I managed to get you two tickets near his reserved section."

"If he's going to be at the ballet, shouldn't we break into his house?" you ask.

"You can't. His security is too good - it's ripped off of mine."

" _Oh_ ," you roll your eyes.

"So you'll need to get into his residence the old-fashioned way, if it comes to that."

"And how are we supposed to do that?" Bucky snarks, even though you suspect he's already running through options.

"Chat him up. The target likes old Hollywood films. Speaks fluent English. Cozy with the American diplomats over there. Use your brains, Barnes; 28."

"I'll use mine," you chirp. "Might have to dust off ol' Bucky's, over here."

His elbow jabs into your ribs, and you scrunch your face to pretend it hurt. Sam is laughing, and Stark is sighing. Steve is rubbing his temples.

"Just remember to send updates," Stark reminds you wearily. "Every 48 hours, max - or we're sending Sam and Steve over there to get you out, and none of us want that."

"I definitely don't want that," Sam agrees. "Sounds cold."

You stick your tongue out at Sam, and he gives a little wave as Tony shuts off the projection. The apartment is suddenly very quiet without the added company, and you stretch your arms overhead with a yawn as Bucky props his feet up on the table, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, hot stuff," you coo, one of your arms landing on Bucky's shoulders. "Wanna go make some noise?"

He gives a snort, blinking blearily at you with a little smile growing on his lips. "Theoretical noise, or…?"

"We could show the team how devoted we are to the mission," you tease.

"Is that your way of asking me for sex?" Bucky deadpans, lifting a brow.

" _Inviting_ ," you suggest.

"Wow, babe. Just, wow _._ "

"Was that a 'yes,' or a 'definitely'?"

Bucky's lips curl into a lopsided grin - a grin that makes you warm all over, and your heart to speed up. He shifts slightly, lifting his hand to trace along your jaw as his face comes near.

"Why don't you take off your coat and stay a while," he says huskily. "See where the night leads."

You pop the buttons of your coat immediately, one by one. "I hope it leads to your pants."

"I'm tryna seduce you, babe," Bucky says crossly. "Stop being a pervert and let me be romantic."

"Oh - sorry."

"If you aren't now, you will be." His arms snake around you middle - suddenly you're hoisted into the air and plopped over his shoulder; secure in his grasp but thoroughly startled. The habit of suppressing your laughter with Buck is thrown out the window - and you can't help giggling madly as he takes long strides to the bedroom.

"Let's go test out this one bed, yeah?" he suggests, his voice all deep and hoarse and causing squiggles of arousal to streak through your body..

"Thought you'd never ask, Sergeant Barnes," you coo, and run your hands across his traps as he twitches beneath your touch.

"You're gonna kill me," is his reply, as you're dumped onto the chilly bedspread - but Bucky doesn't move from above you, gently moving your knees aside so he can get closer.

"Then we'll die together," you tease.

" _That's_  pleasant."

"Always is, with you." Fingers into his hair, and you tug Bucky down to kiss him properly and thoroughly, and for a very long time.

* * *

Bucky is jolted from sleep in the blackest part of night; shivering, he realizes there's sweat beaded all over his front and back, the covers kicked down by his feet. Even you, sleeping on soundly beside him, are only partially covered and likely cold. He pulls the blankets back up, tucking them around your shoulders as you sigh and shift away, eyes fluttering. There's a squeeze in his chest, but Bucky winces - his arm hurts. Not the flesh one. The metal. It's...almost as if it feels  _cold_.

He swings his legs over his side of the bed, gazing at the thin trail of moonlight filtering inside from between a crack in the curtains. Placing his flesh hand on his metal shoulder, he rolls his shoulder a few times in experimentation. Maybe Stark hadn't calibrated the wires for this sort of weather - well, it gets cold in New York, but Russia-cold and New York-cold are two very different things. Even his bare feet on the rug on the floor are chilling over, and Bucky doesn't normally feel cold in a 68° apartment.

Maybe it's phantom pain. That happens, sometimes, when it's about to snow. As if the memories of his nerves, a hundred years old, are remembering a fall down a snowy ravine, the bite of frost as blood steams and pools in the cold air before freezing, the -

A warm hand touches the back of his neck, and Bucky jolts violently.

"Sorry," is your soft whisper, and he can feel your breath on his bare back. He lets out his air in a hiss.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he says roughly.

"You know, we spend so much time together, we're practically the same person." Your voice is quiet, and Bucky's chest gives another painful squeeze as he feels your lips on his shoulder where flesh meets metal. "If you wake up, I'm gonna wake up, too."

"I'm sorry," Bucky mumbles morosely.

"Don't be." Another kiss, and another. Trailing up where faded scars pucker his sensitive skin. Tingles break out to battle the aching chill - and win. Bucky sighs, letting his eyes close as his head droops.

"I'm scared to be here," he mutters after a moment, almost to himself.

"I know." Now your hand is trailing up the metal bicep, letting your body heat seep into the metal, for all the good that will do. But it does good to Bucky - to his heart and soul, at least. He covers your wandering hand with his, giving it a squeeze.

"I didn't want you to see this."

"I know that, too." Amusement colors your voice. "Remember how we're like, the same person, Bucky? I know. I  _know_."

"'Course you do, babe."

"You may be scared, but I'm not," you say gently, chin resting on his shoulder. "If anything happens, I'll get you out. I'm great like that."

Bucky sends you a sideways glare - but your impish smile is there to meet his gaze, and he lets out a chortle. "I know you will," he says fondly, tracing your knuckles with his fingertips.

"Easy mission," you remind him. "Grift up the target, get his intel, go home."

"Home," Bucky says after a moment, the word tasting of stale burning metal on his tongue. He flinches as a voice from nowhere rings out,  _This is your home now, Sergeant Barnes_  - and a piercing light flashes behind his eyes. A deranged face haunts his vision for a split second before he starts to breathe again, sucking in your scent as his fingers close painfully over yours.

"This isn't your home, Bucky." Your voice is firmer now.

"No," he says shakily, casting his eyes around to search for objects to root himself to in the moonlight.

"Remember Brooklyn? The Tower? Your favorite SHIELD logo knock-off boxers you keep at my place?"

A laugh bursts painfully from Bucky's lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember." A pause, and he draws another calming breath as he shifts slightly, tugging you close by the waist to fit into his arms. You settle in very willingly, your head resting against his chest and likely hearing the racing of his heart. But that's okay. You already know. Bucky rests his chin on your head.

"Home," he says carefully, but no flashback comes this time.

"A philosophical discussion for another time," you murmur into his pectoral.

 **"You're my home, babe,"** Bucky kisses the top of your head. **"Where I'm supposed to be."**

"Well,  _I_  think you're supposed to be with me," you tease, tilting your chin up to smile at him. "But that's just me being selfish."

"Then be selfish. Keep me forever, yeah? My nightmares seem to be scared of you, at least."

You're giggling as you cup his chin with your hand, and Bucky bends low to kiss your lips. Middle-of-the-night breath, but he doesn't care. Eventually he makes it back into the bed, tucking himself in with you still in his embrace. Kisses and nuzzles and murmurs of assurance are traded 'til dawn, and Bucky dozes with his fingers tangled in your hair.

Things are always better in the sunlight.

" _Газета!_ "

Bucky jolts awake as you stir in his arms, bleary and adorable - the shout had come from outside the apartment door, and he can hear fading footsteps.

"Newspaper," he grumbles as you yawn. "I'll get it."

"No," you mutter, pressing a hand into his chest and keeping him down. "I'll get it. You stay."

"Babe - "

"No arguing. Honeymoon, remember?"

Bucky sighs a little, but grins a lot as he rubs his eyes. You're on your feet now, moving a little slow as you grab his long-sleeved t-shirt from the day before, pulling it over your head and covering your bare skin. He regrets that his clothing has been put to such use.

"Might want some underwear," he suggests with a yawn.

"Never thought I'd hear you say  _that_."

"So my conscience is in today. Big deal."

You send him a smile and a glare, and pull on some underwear. Bucky watches  _very_  carefully as you saunter from the bedroom.

The front door opens, and closes. And gets locked again. Good.

"Saw our across-the-hall neighbor," you say nonchalantly as you return, tossing the newspaper into Bucky's lap before tugging his shirt back over your head. Well, that didn't last long. Bucky pushes the newspaper aside - who wants to bother reading that, anyway - and he reaches over to snag a finger in the waistband of your underwear.

"Hey!" you protest as he tugs you close - your thighs hit the side of the bed, and with his shirt still wrapped around your head as you squirm out of it - you fumble, and fall straight into bed. Bucky laughs, every inch of his soul filling with bursts of light as you finally emerge, grumpy-faced and ferocious before tossing the shirt into his face. He catches it, but then the breath is knocked from him as you launch yourself at him. Much heavier than clothes. And a lot more handsy.

"Ow!" Bucky aims for your underwear again as you start pinching - but damn, you have strong fingers, and he's gonna be counting these bruises along with those love bites you like to leave freckled on his skin. "Honeymooning, remember?" he forces through gritted teeth, trying to dislodge you from your attack.

"Don't you think these are great sex noises?" you snark back, as he yelps at a pinch to his nipple. He covers the aching spot with one hand, sticking his tongue out as you laugh.

"We can do better," Bucky growls, and before you can keep going, he catches you around the waist and throws you onto your back against the pillows. With your hair all messy, your lovely giggles as you push back against him half-heartedly… Forget the play-fighting. Bucky crashes his lips to yours, shivering at the feel of your soft thigh against his morning...er, condition.

Giggles turn to sighs. He tugs your underwear aside - it rips on accident - oh well, and he throws it away dismissively as you sigh.

"Bucky...again? Really?"

"Stop wearing underwear," he suggests, suckling a bite behind your ear.

"Stop  _ripping_ them."

"They're in my way, babe," Bucky says reasonably, nuzzling between your breasts with his nose as he moves south. "Everything in my way gets destroyed."

"Ugh, you sound like Steve."

Bucky freezes, his chin about two inches from where he'd ripped your underwear away. He blinks. "Wow," he says after a moment. "Mood-killer."

You laugh, covering your face with your hand. "Oh, no - I'm sorry, Buck."

"Now everytime I rip off your underwear, I'm gonna think of Steve."

"Well - if that's what does it for you, I mean - "

Bucky growls again, and silences your teasing by putting his mouth to work, and within a few seconds you're whimpering instead. Good.

"You gotta be louder, babe," he teases, a little hoarsely as he pulls away. "Remember?"

He gets a knee to the side of his head for that - but he probably deserves it. Bucky is chortling as he resumes his task, eyes on your face and drinking in the sight of your lips caught between your teeth, your closed eyes. Just everything. A sight he could watch forever.

It's really,  _really_  great to be away from the team, isn't it?

Late morning in Lubyanka Square is overcast but warm - barely above freezing, that is - and Bucky squeezes your hand which you've shoved in the pocket of his jacket for extra warmth as he takes in the sight of all the buildings. There is a decent amount of people milling around; it's a nice day, after all. He's feeling alright about this; he's never done a tourist route of Moscow before, and honestly - outside of back alleys and red rooms, the city isn't such a bad place.

"If we weren't faking a honeymoon, I'd probably give us away by clinging to you anyway," you tell him, a smile flicking on your face as you tear your gaze away from the vista. "My  _bones_  are cold."

"Mine aren't," Bucky says a little smugly, and at the lift of your eyebrows, he nudges his hip into yours so that you know  _exactly_  which bone he's referring to. You laugh - a delightedly warm sound through the square, and Bucky grins to himself.

"I think we've done enough scoping," you say, sliding your other hand into his pocket as well. He doesn't mind warming both of them - giving a good rub over your chilly flesh as he gazes down at you. He likes how close you're standing. Forget the cover - he just likes  _you_. Not for the first time, Bucky ponders the consequences of everyone knowing...

"Foreign Affairs Ministry next," Bucky says with a little dramatic sigh. "Hitting up all the  _exciting_  places, you know. Like a honeymooning couple  _would_  do."

"I saw a little cafe on the corner," you suggest. Oh, that smile again.

"Sounds romantic," he teases back.

"Wanna take me out on a date, Ed Scully?"

"Depends. Are you paying, since you asked, Miss Eva?"

The tip of your boot digs into his toes for that - he deserves it and he knows it - but Bucky is laughing as his metal arm arm snakes around your shoulders in a very public display of affection - or possession. He realizes with a tingling that he  _can_  be possessive of you here and now - it may not last beyond the mission, but it's something. And so he takes advantage, and full-on scowls at the man who opens the door for you to the cafe.

It feels good.  _Really_ good.

Over identical bowls of  _zelyoniye shchi_ , feet and legs woven comfortably beneath the tiny table at a window facing Lubyanka Square, Bucky's bubble is thoroughly burst.

Sam calls.

Catching sight of Bucky's scowl at the caller id, you laugh and pluck his phone from his fingers, answering it on speaker phone.

"Sammy, we're in public," you tell him by way of greeting, setting the phone down to spoon up some more soup.

"Um - " is the sound on the other end. Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Just say what you need to; honeymooners aren't supposed to take calls from annoying friends." And just because he loves that little smile on your lips, Bucky winks at you over the table.

"I was just calling to  _tell_ you," Sam says, a little snidely, a little snobbishly. "Ya'll are trending. Well, 28 is. Apparently a neighbor saw you half-naked getting the morning newspaper, babygirl. Tried to post a picture, but SHIELD got to it first."

"Great," you say dryly.

"I'm sad "Eva Billy" gets deleted from pics; otherwise I could get a print and put up on the refrigerator - " Sam starts, but before Bucky says something he might regret, the metal spoon bending in his suddenly tight grip - you reach across the table with a tender smile, placing your hand over Bucky's fist.

"Sam, if you did that, I would personally make sure that every mouse hiding in Avengers Tower finds its way to your bed," you say pleasantly. "And I'd doodle on your goggles."

"Hey, c'mon, I was just  _teasing_  - "

"Don't be a jerk," Bucky says stonily.

"Whoa now, Tin-man - I'm pretty sure the tweet said 28 was wearing a  _man's_ shirt - I'm assuming that's yours - "

Bucky is severely tempted to bash his phone in with a fist - since Sam isn't there to personally pummel - but you just laugh.

"Honeymooning, Sammy," you remind him, eyes sparkling into Bucky's - makes his temper cool a little bit. "We know how to keep it up. Any noise complaints yet?"

"Nah. You gotta do better with that."

"We'll have to see what we can do." A wink for Bucky - and his lips soften into a besotted smile.

"If that's all you called about, go away," he says shortly to Sam. "We're on a  _date_."

"Uh huh. That's all. Have fun, you lovebirds." And with a cackle at his own joke, Sam hangs up - Bucky doesn't throw his phone out, because he might need that later - but he does put it back in his pocket, and catch your hand to lift it to his lips.

"Sorry about our annoying friend, babe," he says with a grin. "And the creepy neighbors."

Giggling, you stir your soup absently, giving him a very appropriate newlywed gaze. "It's okay. I'm a big girl. I can handle the bird and a creep."

Bucky knows it's true. So he lets it drop.

After lunch is more reconnaissance - more government buildings which the target frequents. Outside the Building of the Mayor's Office, Bucky catches sight of the target and tenses up. Mentally, as you pretend to jabber away about honeymoon things, he memorizes the men the target is with; he strains his ears to try to hear what they're saying - but the Square is busy. No luck. But he counts the bodyguards, he counts the number of com devices and the guns and other weaponry packed around the target. He determines the threat. A six out of ten. Not bad. Not great, either.

Job done for the afternoon.

Maybe he'll get lucky, and the evening will go just as well.

* * *

The Moscow underground stinks back to the apartment. Bucky doesn't like it. But he does like being squished next to you, holding onto a pole as you make silly faces as a giggling baby. He squeezes your hand tighter, because otherwise he might drift back into the hazy grey shadow his apprehension from last night. Even though he doesn't even remember the nightmares, he remembers his skin crawling with ice and steel, his heart freezing over -

You blow a raspberry at the baby, and it kicks its feet as it gives an enormous belly laugh. Bucky's fingers curl over yours on the pole.

Back to the apartment, to get ready for the ballet. An envelope with two tickets had been shoved under the door, and Bucky laments the security situation as he bends down to pick it up. You bump into his rear from behind, and he snorts as he straightens.

"Oops," you tease. "Sorry. Didn't see you there."

"Liar," Bucky says fondly.

" _Your_  liar."

The rest of the late afternoon is spent doing research, and prepping for the ballet. Bucky programs the communication devices he'd packed from Stark to the same frequency. You hack into a website for the blueprints of the Bolshoi Theatre, and then somehow find the security codes.

He's impressed. He shouldn't be surprised, all this time he's worked with you - but it still makes him a little prideful.

A break from preparations to make an early supper. While Bucky washes dishes at the sink in the golden light of sunset, you answer a knock at the door - and when he hears it close again with a sigh of relief, your laugh echoes in the apartment.

"Stark set us up for tonight," you call. "Hope this tux fits all your guns."

"I'll rip some seams, if I have to," Bucky grumbles, wiping his hands dry.

He showers, to look extra presentable, but only puts on the trousers sent by Stark and a tank-top. You've laid out a selection of knives on the bed before hopping in to shower yourself, and Bucky gives the weapons an askance look, and moves to the balcony for some fresh air. Maybe that will clear his head.

Leaning his elbows on the metal railing, Bucky's eyes scanning the bright lights of Moscow around and below. The sky is a dusky purple. Almost pretty. He can pick out a few building he recognizes from old and fuzzy and half-blank memories that make his ears ring and his head hurt. He almost wishes for a cigarette between his lips - not because he likes the taste, but because it would only deepen the familiarity. Might help the weird itch in his heart go away.

They used to give him cigarettes, he thinks. The Soviets.

Footsteps sound behind him, where dim light is spilling from the room. Then a pair of arms encircle his waist, and he can feel your head pushing through beneath his metal elbow.

Grinning, Bucky lifts his arm for you to fit through. You're beaming up at him as you settle in his half-embrace. You'd put on a robe, and the scent of soap clings to your skin.

"Daydreaming?" you tease lightly.

"Don't need to," Bucky replies easily, and the taste of your breath on his tongue chases away the nicotine craving. "Got everything I'll ever want, right here."

Your nose wrinkles, and chuckling, Bucky leans over to plant a kiss on your head.

"Sap," you say fondly.

"Only for you, babe."

You rest your head on his shoulder, and Bucky's fingers absently find your hair. Such a lovely, sweet smell over the stale city air. "I was just remembering," he says a few quiet moments later.

"Oh?" Your face tilts upward, a brow lifted.

Bucky doesn't clarify. He doesn't need to. Your nose nuzzles into his shoulder, and your lip press to the metal ridges. Soft. Tender. A restless ache in his chest has him shifting his weight. "You know something I remember?" he muses, resting his chin in your head for a better look at the twinkling lights. "I went steady with a girl called Florence when I was sixteen, and she called me lovebug."

" _Lovebug_?" Your voice wavers with humor.

"Lovebug," Bucky confirms.

"What did you call her?"

"Um - Flo."

"Not honey? Sweetums? Hot stuff?"

Bucky snorts. At least you're teasing again. His fingers creep up to your ear, and give a tug.

"Watch it,  _lovebug_ ," you snark, and he gets another prod in his side. Which he barely feels, because he's laughing.

"You're never gonna let me live that one down, are ya, babe?"

" _Never_. I'll be telling Sammy, too."

Bucky groans. "No...anything but that."

"Come on. We have to be at the Bolshoi in an hour, and traffic's gonna be bad. As much as I want to keep you in  _this_  - " and with a purr, your hands run down both his bare arms, and a shiver from your touch goes straight to his pants as he grins. "I think you won't be allowed in the theatre in this nice top. Shows off all your guns."

"Metaphorically and literally," Bucky adds. You laugh, and pull him back into the bedroom by the hand. He goes, and leaves his shadowed thoughts behind.

He's ready first. He waits by the door, wearing his wool overcoat, unbuttoned, as he pulls on some fancy opera gloves to disguise the metal. No one  _should_  recognize him - his hair is shorter than usual, and he's been growing his beard out. Should be fine. Right?

You walk out in the dress sent by Stark, and Bucky's jaw hits the floor.

Bottle-green, silky and draped across your body like...like...he doesn't even  _know_ , except that he's getting erect as he watches your expression turn to humor as you burst into laughter, and he tugs his trousers down slightly.

"Why? Just why?" he grumbles, taking the fur coat from over your arm to shake out. You shimmy into it, and he tries not to smell your perfume. "Why do you do this to me? Are you  _trying_  to make it difficult?"

"Not difficult, no," you coo, cheeks dimpling as you flutter your lashes up at him. "Just  _hard_."

"I swear, my girl is the  _biggest_  pervert in Russia."

"Don't make the other boys jealous."

"Stay by me, and I won't have to."

"Bossy," you say fondly, and he pats down his jacket one last time (four pistols should suffice, plus the knives everywhere. And he means  _everywhere_ ) - before giving you a strained smile and opening the door so you can glide through, golden clutch in hand.

The Bolshoi is packed. Bucky isn't surprised. He is tense, though. With one hand on your elbow, eyes darting left and right as he searches for face he recognizes from earlier, he follows your steps through the glittering, laughing crowd.

He's been before, he realizes with a heavy stutter in his chest. Everything is weirdly familiar, as if he's dreamed about it before - the vaulted ceilings, the paintings, the masonry. The gilded gold. The marble. The -

" _Ed_."

Your voice - your soft voice, a squeeze of your hand, the  _ding ding ding!_  memory of his cover. He's not Bucky, he's not James Buchanan Barnes, he's not the Winter Soldier or the Asset. Ed. Ed Scully. Bucky forces a smile, trying to reassure that clouded expression on your face. Some of the heavy lead in his stomach lightens, and he squeezes your hand back.

Doesn't matter who he is. Long as he's with you.

The show is scheduled to start sooner than Bucky would like - he would have  _preferred_  another half-hour to scope out the foyers, the staircases, where all the doors lead. But no. Patrons file into the theater, and he keeps a tight hold of your hand as you guide him to the reserved box.

"Here," you say, as he's settling into the red velvet seat. He has to blink for a moment to adjust to the noise - it's busy, and overwhelming. But then you dump something heavy into his lap, and he jolts.

"Opera glasses?" he asks, bemused.

"For recon," you say sweetly, a dimple at the crease of your lips. Bucky wants to kiss it. "So we blend in."

"Won't staring at the audience give us away?" he teases, but picks up the gold binoculars anyway.

"Everyone else will be looking around, too," you tell him wisely. "This is a prime social event."

"So you're saying I probably shouldn't be feeling up your dress, huh?"

You blink, and grin, very ferally in the flickering shadows from the dim lights all around. "I wouldn't complain," you murmur in a low voice, and with an eye on the silky green folds of your dress and where your ankle is peeking out, Bucky adjusts his trousers.

The music starts with a swell, and a thundering of applause.

Ballet, Bucky decides, is a bit boring. Making a mental note never to tell Natasha that, he lets his gaze move away from the immediate stage, and drift towards the audience. He remembers the section the target has reserved; so he makes his way there. He could probably see without the opera glasses, but they're a good disguise.

Your hand is on his thigh. In the cozy balcony box, Bucky can feel your body close to his. He can hear your heartbeat over the orchestra, he can feel your pulse, hear your soft breathing…

"Bucky." Your lips are by his ear, and your warm breath makes goosebumps break out across his skin. He clenches the glasses a little tighter, but doesn't move from observing the target's section. "Bucky," you whisper again, and he swears he's gonna combust if you keep this up.

"I'm gonna combust if you keep this up," he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

"I like the sound of  _that_. But it'll have to wait - go seventy degrees to your left."

Bucky snaps over - fast enough to be suspicious, probably, if anyone is watching. His breath catches - a line of dark-suited men are filing out of a section and through an exit door. They're all wearing communication devices - and not the standard-issue worn by the Bolshoi security guards.

Lowering the glasses, he gives a final glance to the target - but the target is standing, moving out of his box and clearly ignoring what's going on on the stage -

"Shoot," Bucky mumbles - you're already sending a whispered message to Stark. This was just supposed to be recon - the intel had indicated that the target wouldn't be moving goods until the end of the month - he shouldn't be leaving a ballet - and if he is, it won't be for any simple reason…

"Let's go." Your soft voice, and he stands, straightening his jacket as your skirt swirls around your legs. He tucks  _that_  away for later.

Out into the deserted marble hallway, and Bucky's ears prick up as he searches for signs of activity. You follow him without questions - this isn't your first mission together - and distant noises lead him through an 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' door and down a back staircase that stinks like mothballs. Your heels click on the steps.

The voices grow louder as he descends, and there's an iron door at the bottom.

Great. This is promising.

Bucky pauses there, and you do, too. Pressing his ear to the door but keeping his eyes on your face, he listens to the snatches of Russian. They're talking about money. And weapons. And drug mules. And weapon mules. And this should be enough for Stark, he decides, yanking off the stupid, sweaty fancy dress gloves from his fingers with his teeth and letting them fall to the ground.

And then his throat goes dry - you've flicked up the skirt of your dress to pull out not one - but two pistols, one from each thigh.

 _Why_  does it always have to be at sensitive moments?

Your eyes dance - you know his problem, of course. Bucky tries to scowl. But as he draws out his own guns, his lips twist into a little encouraging smile.

"You aim high, babe," he whispers. "In case there are any scouts in the rafters. I'll take care of the brunt."

"Can we tidy this up fast?" you murmur back. "This dress is getting uncomfortable."

"Which I will  _definitely_  help you with later."

A grin stretches across your face, and with a final huff of laughter, Bucky twists and pulls the handle of the iron door.

In retrospect, he probably should've peeked inside first.

No rafters, so no guards - just a swarm of men in suits in the middle of the room, and the half-second it takes for you to figure out there isn't any danger from above, they gain a slight advantage.

Bucky shoots the goons; first the nearest, then the ones that surround the sitting target. Bang. Dead. Bang. Wounded. Bang. Definitely dead. Bang. Won't be shooting again. Bang. Dead. Bang. Dead.

He flips out the empty magazine, and shoves in another as he feels your wrist bracing against his arm. He likes it when you do that - doesn't even mind the recoil.

Shouts in Russian are finally catching up - but it's too late. A rolling cart in is kicked across towards the bad guys (Bucky has excellent aim, he's proud to say), and bullets ricochet off the ceiling and walls. One goes through the leg of his trousers, stinging the skin but not breaking it.

Not bad.

By the time Bucky reaches the target, there aren't any guards left around him - it's just a shivering, wide-eyed man taking panicked breaths in a velvet arm chair, gripping the arm rests as he stares at Bucky.  _You_  only get the barest glance.

"Soldat," the man chokes out.

"Not anymore," Bucky says, reloading his gun again - this time less briskly. No need to rush. Your footsteps move away as you scope out the rest of the basement. Bucky stays with the target. "Would you like to go to jail, or die?"

"Er - prison, perhaps?"

"Hmm. Sounds cushy."

"Please," the man says in a trembling voice. His eyes flicker to the side. "Please, soldat."

"Don't call me that!" Without realizing it, Bucky's fingers shake on the handle of his gun.

"Bucky," you call, and he doesn't dare take his gaze from the target. "There are some crates over here - I'm gonna take some pics and send them to Stark. He said the police is about 45 seconds out - maybe keep the target alive for questioning?"

"I'll consider it," Bucky grinds out through his teeth.

The target's eyes go to you again. Oh, shoot. He whirls around, lifting his gun in a panic -

Too late. A guard from the shadows is already behind you, concentrating on your phone in your hand - the butt of a gun cracks against the back of your head - Bucky fires, the guard falls, and you've collapsed into a limp puddle of green on the concrete floor.

Bucky turns back, and shoots the target in the leg. The target screams.

The police, thankfully, arrive thirty seconds later. By then Bucky is curled around your limp figure on the ground. Lifting your head slightly with a shaking hand, a cry of fear strangles in his throat as he sees blood trickling from the corner of your mouth -  _no!_  - wet, sticky blood all over your hair in the back -  _no!_  - and scrapes all over your bare arms, and a cut on your cheek -  _no!_

A police officer kneels down beside him. Bucky babbles - in Russian or English, he doesn't know - and then you're stirring, and his eyes are burning as he chokes out a laugh, and -

"Next time you wanna wake me up," you murmur, words slurring as your head lulls, eyelids blinking rapidly. "An alarm will do, Buck."

He laughs, all thick and terrified, and hugs you to his chest. Carefully, of course. And then there are medical professionals swirling around, and Bucky has to let you go.

Well, sort of. He keeps a hold of your hand while they administer some medicine, clean you up, put on some bandages. All on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees the target being carried out on a stretcher, leg stained with blood - but he doesn't care one bit.

His pocket vibrates. A glare from an EMT, and he jumps.

It's Stark.

"Well, that went sooner than expected," Tony starts, without even a greeting or a ' _how are you doing_.' Bucky's used to it. "The jet's still at the city airport. We'll need you in tomorrow to work on a report."

"28's down," Bucky says.

" _What_?"

"She might need to be hospitalized," he adds, even though by the way you're attempting to communicate with the EMTs, albeit weakly, this is obviously a lie.

"Then stay a couple extra days," Tony says firmly. "Unless it's dire - "

"A couple days outta put her back into shape to travel halfway across the world."

"Do I need to send Sam out? Keep an eye on things?"

You squeeze Bucky's hand.

"Nah," Bucky says. "If you got the leader, I'm sure the police can handle it from there. I'll keep an eye on things."

 _'Things'_ meaning you. He glances over to see a small, dazed sort of smile on your face as you stare at him - he winks back.

"Okay, then," Stark says after a moment. Is he miffed? Huh. Bucky doesn't care. "Well, good job again, and uh, keep us updated on 28."

"I will."

Bucky hangs up.

It's about thirty minutes later the police finally let him go - even with his preliminary statement and the promise of a complete report from the Avengers, there seems to be a significant amount of bureaucratic holdup. Typical. By then you're sitting up, Bucky supporting you, and taking sips of water from a bottle.

Finally, with a nod to confirm you're ready, he scoops you into his arms to leave the theater. The police had been kind enough to have a cab waiting, and Bucky doesn't let go of you all the way back to the hotel. He doesn't stop murmuring whatever he's going on about, either, or pressing gentle kisses to your temple.

"I feel like someone took a hammer to my head," you grumble, as he carries you up to the room, too. Bucky just chortles.

"That's basically what happened, babe. If you want, I can tell the team you were jumped by three guards, instead of just one."

You sigh, and rest your head against his shoulder. "You know me so well."

"'Course I do, babe. We're practically, the same person, remember?"

Your little wheeze makes his heart hurt. Bucky is careful not to jolt you around as he gets into the apartment, and locks it behind him. It's dark, but he knows the way, and carries you straight to the bedroom.

Not exactly how he planned on taking off your dress, but it'll do. Ripped and stained with blood and dirt, Bucky tosses it regretfully aside before taking care of your thigh holsters next. Your eyes are closed, and he misses your usual snarky commentary.

But you'll get better. He knows it. Because he can't bear it if you don't.

A pair of his own sweatpants, because you need to be comfortable, and you snuggle into the bed as Bucky drapes the blankets over you. A shower will have to wait until tomorrow - hopefully by then you'll be feeling better. He's already planning on waking you up every hour of the night so that the concussion doesn't take you under.

He hates the sight of that white bandage around your head. His metal fingers trail along the gauze. You don't move, and he sighs before dipping down and pressing a kiss to your head.  _Then_  you stir, and there's a loopy smile on your face, though your eyes stay closed.

"Bucky. You're my home, too. You know that, right?"

His heart swells, and bursts. "Yeah, babe," Bucky says softly. "I know it."


	29. Fight Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-reveal // Bucky gets bad news about a mission you are on with Sam - he doesn’t hesitate to run to the rescue. But did you really need rescuing?

Bucky is shaking with anger as he yanks his belt closed; the gun holsters shake and bump against his thigh, but he doesn't notice. The engine of the jet is whirring as the aircraft shudders, carrying him through the bright blue sky miles above the ocean, but he doesn't notice.

"I  _told_  him this was a bad idea," he grumbles to himself, since there's no one else on board to complain to. Mimicking Stark, Bucky raises his voice, "' _Oh, sure, Sam and Agent 28 will be fine - they work great together - it's a simple mission! You just stay here and do your paperwork like a good boy, Barnes!'_ "

Bucky scoffs. Belt secure, he starts on thigh holsters next. But thigh holsters remind him of you, and that just flares up his irritation again.

"' _Don't worry about me, Bucky; I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself',_ " he mocks. "Huh! That's why you've gone off the grid in the wild jungles of Thailand, isn't it, huh babe?"

There's no answer. The jet rumbles on.

"I'm going to kill Sam," is Bucky's next growl, and with no less than six knives strapped to various parts of his body, he stalks back up to the front of the jet where the autopilot has things in hand - but that leaves Bucky to be angry more.

"' _Fake dating as tourists is one of the easiest cons to run'_ ," he imitates Natasha next, crossing his arms as his leg jitters. "' _Since neither Sam or 28 speak Thai, it'll be easier to sell it. Might make it hard to get the information they need, though.'_ "

Forget native language experience. How about the fact that it had taken you and Sam  _three whole, frigging weeks_  to even find where the target was hiding? How about that the night after reporting that you were going in to investigate, all communication had gone totally, completely, blank? How good is the fake dating now?

Bucky had  _not_  been a fan of the idea. Not that he could've protested, anyway. Remembering that coy, laughing look on your face as you had packed your suitcase for the mission, teasing Bucky all the while, makes him want to scream.

But he hadn't. Not even when he stopped getting texts from you - that's pretty normal, for a mission. He'd stayed calm. Shouldn't have.

Back to Tony. "' _Uh, hey, Barnes, we haven't heard from 28 and Sam in a few days. I'm sending you on an extraction mission_  - like I didn't tell you this was a bad idea in the first place -  _just bring them back safe, yeah?_ " Bucky rolls his eyes even though no one can see. "Yeah, Stark, I'll bring them back, all right. I'm dragging both of them back by their  _ears_."

He scowls at the vista of Pacific Ocean far below. He scowls at the distant line of fuzzy grey as the jet approaches land. He scowls. He scowls, he scowls, he scowls.

"You are never going  _anywhere_  without me again, d'ya hear?" Bucky growls, but you're not there to answer. Or tease him out of his mood.

Stark may have waited longer than the policy 48 hours after radio silence before sending backup, but he had made arrangements for Bucky to land north of Bangkok at the last airfield before the jungle. It's midmorning local time, and Bucky is almost surprised out of his irritation as he stalks off the gangway with his bag over his shoulder to see a waiting Jeep and a man in a white shirt.

Luckily Bucky's Thai is still up to par.

The man, a local guide, gives five minutes of directions after Bucky refuses his help driving. He'll drive himself. A river to the west is flooded - good information. There are electric fences fourteen kilometers that way; a break in the fence can be found around a wildlife sanctuary. All fine.

Bucky throws his bag in the back of the Jeep, and climbs into the driver's seat.

It's already hot. For all of Stark's money and travel arrangements, he should have gotten a car with working air conditioning, at least. Ten miles into the tense woodland, and Bucky has to pull over to shrug off his outer layers. It goes against his ever instinct to be baring his metal arm in unknown territory like this, but his skin is  _melting_. Drops of sweat are beaded on his face and neck, and his jacket is soaked. Just the black tank top he'd thrown on underneath, it is. Now everyone will see the firepower he's packing.

That's sounding like a good thing. Bucky is not here to play around.

The resort you and Sam had been sent to is on the coast line, nestled against the foothills of a mountain and buried in thick foliage. It's only a four hour drive, and when Bucky gets there, he parks several hundred feet from the paved entrance and stalks up to the property on foot.

The villa reserved under false names is empty. No luggage.

Bucky stalks back to the car.

"Tony," he growls over the phone. "Where are they?"

"I've been working on it, okay?" Stark replies, sounding peeved. "I had to hack into a few different - "

"I don't care what you had to do - give me their damn location or I can't extract them like you ordered me to!"

"Sheesh, the mosquitos getting you?"

Bucky slaps his bare arm with a metal hand. It stings, and smears the dead insect across his skin. "No," he snaps.

"I'm sending the coordinates of their trackers when they went off. I've triangulated it with some signals in the area - I don't know what you're gonna find there, Barnes, but be careful."

Bucky twists the key in the ignition, the heavy engine rumbling. "I'm always careful." A stinging on his neck, and he smacks that next. A  _click_  as the phone call is ended.

Stark's location takes him west. After another few hours, Bucky has to stop to fill the tank with gas, to the delight of some wide-eyed locals. Great. The Winter Soldier is about to make more headlines.

Soon the roads aren't paved anymore, and the jungle underbrush gets thicker. The sweat and mosquito bites are driving Bucky absolutely bonkers; he steers with one hand on the wheel while he itches furiously with the other, temper darkening more and more by the minute. He's mad at Stark, he's mad at Sam, he's mad at you - he's mad at himself for letting you go off with Sam alone.

He's terrified, too, at the heart of it.

It's past noon, though the sun is barely visible through the thick trees above, when Bucky catches sight of wiring through the trees. Cameras. He pulls over and stops the car. Time to walk - two miles to go to meet Stark's coordinates, anyway.

Bucky moves from tree to tree , his eyes flickering from side to side as he observes the security going on - it's simple enough, but it takes concentration to stay out of the line of sight. Every so often he can hear a buzzing: electric fencing, or traps somewhere. He moves away from the buzzing.

Finally, the noise of people reach him. Crouching behind a massive tree, Bucky sucks in the humid air as he rubs down his itching skin. At least one arm feels fine - except that the metal is blisteringly hot to the touch. There's just no winning.

He peers around the trunk of the tree. Some rooftops, in the distance, and to his surprise, a blast of cooler air hits his face. It feels  _marvelous_ , and then he notices the green lake between the trees.

Oh. A lake. No wonder there are people here.

More observation finds a pair of rifle-wielding guards in treetop platforms, but they're nowhere near Bucky - they're about a quarter mile off, positioned around what looks like some concrete walls without a roof. He'll go there to investigate last - no need jumping into the line of fire first thing.

Huh. Natasha would be proud of him for that decision.

Security is laxer on this side. More scrambling towards the lake, and Bucky realizes that the rooftops he was seeing belong to an enormous complex of houses -  _a_  house? It doesn't look much different than the resort he'd visited earlier, and by the time he's approaching a bamboo fence about waist-high, threaded with electric lines, he can see stunning balconies set over the lake, surrounded by carefully cultivated native flowers, with beach chairs and lazy fans whirling from pagodas.

What the hell?

Bucky takes the fence at a run, jumping over and landing on his feet on the bamboo walkway. He hesitates for only a moment - but no sign of alarm reaches his ears.

The view is stunning; he has to admit that. A few careful steps take him around the villa, but there's no sign of anyone else being there - some peeks inside rooms show mosquito-netting hanging over white-sheeted beds, and trinkets of local deities in golds and jade.

On towards the next villa, confusion building by the second, and -

Bucky stalls in his tracks, his heart nearly leaping from his chest.

It's  _you_. Reclined in a beach chair in a swimsuit and a sheer cover up, sunglasses on your face, and sandals hanging from your bare feet. A yellow drink in one hand, which you stir with a straw.

"Stark sent me here to rescue you from  _this_?" Bucky blurts, because he's too shocked to think anything else.

You visibly jolt, without spilling a drop - turning towards him, Bucky's heart gives another leap as a smile dawns on your face, and you shove your sunglasses up on your face.

"Bucky!" you exclaim, clearly delighted. "What are you doing here?"

"Extracting you and Sam from dire circumstances," Bucky snaps. "What's going on?"

"Oh, well - it's a long story - "

He plants his booted feet shoulder width apart, crossing his arms across his chest in a way that draws your attention and widens your eyes. Bucky watches as your tongue darts out to lick your lips, eyes on his bare arms - before he snarks,

"Where's your  _boyfriend_?"

Your eyes flicker up to his, a sly smile on your lips. "I'm looking at him."

Bucky's mood disappears in an instant. It always does, with you and your light-heartedness and your teasing - it's not like he can stay mad at you for long, anyway. Sam, on the other hand…

"Explanation," Bucky forces his voice to be severe, but it only widens your smile.

"This is the residence of the target Stark sent us to investigate," you say, eyes sparkling. "He's not the guy we're looking for, by the way - "

Bucky must have been distracted, because he suddenly jumps at the sound of approaching footsteps from inside the villa. A man appears, dressed in shorts with close-cropped black hair and tattoos up and down, and Bucky's hand is on the gun at his hip before he can take a breath.

"Bucky," you say soothingly, holding out a hand. "It's fine. This is Chati Bunnag."

The target. Bucky eyes him up and down, and Chati lifts his brows in return.

"Who's this,  _cêā h̄ỵing_?" Chati asks in English.

"It's a long story," you tell him, swinging your legs over the side of your chair to stand up. Drink on the ground, and you yawn as you stretch your arms above your head. Bucky's eye twitches - it's been a long month since you'd left on the mission, and were it not for the company, he just might tackle you. Should've chosen looser pants.

"You're full of long stories today, aren't you, babe?" Bucky growls.

"Oh, is this who you were telling me about?" Chati asks, his eyes lighting up. His scrutiny of Bucky is suddenly much more thorough - on his metal arm, on his sweaty and mussed hair, on his various weaponry.

"Sure is," you chirp. "Which means it's time for us to go. We needn't intrude on your lovely hospitality anymore, Chati."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like,  _cêā h̄ỵing_ ," Chati assures you. "And you - " His head swivels to Bucky, "I can offer a very good paying job - "

"Bucky doesn't do private security," you laugh. "And he's coming home with me, sorry to say."

Chati sighs, then flicks his head back inside. "Let's go get your friend, yes?"

"I'll grab my things first." Your fingers wind through Bucky's, and suddenly he's being dragged into one of the villas, where your suitcase and things are neatly arranged on a mother-of-pearl enameled dresser.

Bucky is sure he knows exactly nothing that's going on.

"Sam's still in the cages," you tell him, as you shrug out of your swimsuit cover up. Bucky glances around - but Chati hadn't followed. Good. "I was going to negotiate his release tonight, but - "

"Cages?" Bucky blurts, stunned back into the present. "Negotiate? Release?"

You laugh at his confusion - while donning pants and a shirt. And your thigh holster. Bucky's mouth is watering, but he forces himself to listen.

"Welcome to the fight club of the Thai jungles," you say.

"The -  _what_?"

"Like I said, long story."

Bucky follows you as you pick up your bag, and lead him out of the villa and across the compound, but no further explanation is forthcoming. At present. There's a courtyard with a sparkling fountain; water pouring through the trunks of marble elephants and jasmine blossoms floating in the pool. Bucky stares, barely noticing as he exits through a massive teak door and back into the jungle.

"I would've contacted you to let you know we're safe," you tell him over your shoulder. "But Chati is particular about technology at his vacation home. There's a no cell service, no WiFi rule. I was going to negotiate for that, too. Eventually."

"So, is this guy a criminal, or what?"

"Well, sure." You're fast approaching the concrete structure Bucky had seen earlier, and a pair of guards hurry to open an iron door as they catch sight of you. Bucky blinks as you grin back at him to whisper, "Tax evasion."

Huh. Bucky's pretty sure he remembers the target being under investigation for human trafficking.

He doesn't like being inside the walls. Bucky's eyes dart left and right, noticing more guards patrolling a walkway near the top of the structure. A few people are surrounding a square in the middle marked off with bamboo, through he can see two men exchanging blows and kicks to the delight of their audience.

 _Fight club_ , you'd said.

You walk straight past the brawl, and duck inside the structure.

Bucky blinks in the sudden darkness -  _cages_ , you'd said, and you weren't wrong. There are beds of bamboo and leaves, at least, and the few people inside are chatting easily. You don't stop walking until the very end, pausing at the last cage - room? Cell? - and Bucky sees Sam lying on his back on one of the beds, staring at the ceiling with a pinched expression.

"Hey, bird brain," you say, tapping the iron rods that make up the cage part. "Time to go."

Sam sits up, mouth falling open to see you - and then catching sight of Bucky and huffing in relief. Or anger.

"You're okay," he says weakly. "I thought they were gonna dump your body in the lake, babygirl - "

"Oh, please," you brush this away. "Chati is  _civilized_."

"Khun Bunnag?" Sam asks after a startled moment.

"Yep."

"You're on first name basis with him?"

"Obviously. Well - I am with him; he's on first name basis with my alias."

"When did you get here?" Sam nods towards Bucky as you unlatch the door the to Sam's cell.

"Fifteen minutes ago," Bucky says.

"Oh, they didn't make you fight?"

Bucky blinks. "...No?"

"Lucky you," Sam says sarcastically. "See this?" He pulls up his dirty, ratty shirt to show off his ribs, purple and black and covering above ten inches in circumference. "I got  _this_  on initiation day."

"Sam's not very familiar with Thai street fighting," you say to Bucky, your lips twitching as Sam limps out of the cell.

"And you are?" Bucky asks, bemused.

"How do you think I got out of the cages?" you retort. "By batting my eyelashes?"

"Yes," says Sam.

"Yes," says Bucky.

You huff. "I got put in a fight, won in about thirty seconds, and Chati fell madly in love with me. Who can blame him?"

Bucky stifles a laugh - turns it into a cough, and the three of you set off back out of the cages.

"Oh, how cute," Sam says sarcastically. "28 has a boyfriend, who happens to run the toughest, roughest underground fight club in south Asia."

Bucky tries not to look at you - but over the top of Sam's head, he catches your eye - more coughing.

"I sure do," you tease. "He calls me princess. Even offered to give me a tattoo, anywhere I like, free of charge."

"Did you take him up on that?" Bucky blurts. The look in your sparkling eyes is clearly, " _You'll have to find that out, won't you?"_ , but aloud you say,

"None of your business, Barnes."

Oh, it's his business.

To his total shock, the Jeep Bucky had driven in is waiting by the entrance when they exit the concrete compound. Chati is there, deep in discussion with a man wielding a rifle, but he turns with a smile when you approach.

" _Cêā h̄ỵing_ ," he exclaims, and you laugh as he opens his arms for an embrace. Bucky grits his teeth together as Chati kisses each of your cheeks. "Are you sure you will not stay? With my Tigress, we could rule Bangkok! Perhaps even Shanghai."

"Your dreams are bigger than mine," you tease Chati lightly. Chati nods to this, though he gives a dramatic sigh of remorse, and his eyes land on Bucky. Bucky smacks a mosquito on his shoulder. A smile curls Chati's lips.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, you will always have a place with me,  _cêā h̄ỵing_."

The guard tosses Bucky the keys, which had been hidden between the rim and rubber of the back left tire. He still doesn't know what's happening, he's pretty sure.

Bucky climbs into the Jeep as Sam opens the passenger door, but you slide in before Sam can. "Sorry," you say as Sam protests. "I get carsick."

Bucky snorts. He can just imagine that charming smile on your face.

Sam sits in the backseat.

You roll down the window to wave goodbye to Chati, and Bucky guns it away from the complex.

The explanation is finally given during the ride through the jungle: you and Sam had been investigating Chati for human trafficking; the suspicion being that participants in these underground fights were kidnapped and forced. The two of you had finally learned the location of Chati's vacation home, and gone into the jungle to find out what's going on.

"We were caught unawares," you say with a sigh. "We had to lie and say we wanted to join - so we were let in."

"Biggest mistake of my life," Sam grumbles from the backseat. "Never been so humiliated…" and his voice fades into more grumbles under his breath.

You had made a splash as a specially skillful fighter - especially being the first female in the complex since a legendary character the locals called Flying Crane. You'd caught Chati's eye, and he'd taken you from the cages and into his home.

"Since he's not a fan of technology while he's on holiday, dealing with the fights, he keeps plenty of hard files," you say. "I read through them - he evades taxes, by the way - but I didn't find a shred of evidence for human trafficking. And I talked to as many guards and participants that know English, but they all came willingly. They're paid pretty well."

"So," Bucky drawls, eyes on the rugged road ahead, and itching furiously at a bite on his elbow. "You spent a month in Thailand, only to find out that the man you were investigating evades  _taxes_?"

"We were sent here on a mission to discover just that," you remind him. "By  _Stark_. You make it sound like I was just vacationing the entire time."

Bucky grunts. The memory of you lounging in your bathing suit is still very fresh.

Sam's head pops up between the two front seats. "This was hard work, man," he says fervently. "You know how many grannies I hand to question with  _hand gestures_  in Phuket?"

"You loved it," you say, digging your elbow into Sam's arm until he retreats with a yelp.

"The food has been great, I can't deny that - "

"Chati does  _not_  skimp on food." There's a dreamy smile on your face as Bucky glances over at you.

"Well, now that we're here," he says at last. "You guys wanna take me out for some excellent grub? Make up for the fact that you pretty much ruined this mission."

"Ruined?" Sam says indignantly.

"Ruined?" you gasp.

"Don't even start," Bucky says severely. "If Stark doesn't write you up for this, I will."

"Sure you will," you say daringly, and there's a twitch to your lips. Oh, no. You're gonna convince him otherwise, Bucky knows it. He shifts awkwardly in the seat, forcing his eyes back to the road. He scratches his jaw. Damn mosquitoes.

The sun is deepening to orange by the time Bucky's nearing the airfield where the jet is parked. But he takes a turn, and goes into the town his guide had pointed out earlier that day, instead. Since the worry is mostly out of his system (not all the annoyance, though), he really is getting hungry.

He wonders if there's a way to get rid of Sam and keep you...he's pretty sure the reservations at the resort are good for another week…

A shack in the twilight, light by a single, flickering bulb, and plastic chairs around a flat top propped up on an empty gas drum. You've picked up some Thai (from Chati? Bucky doesn't like that thought, but he doesn't correct your grammar, either), and you're smiling at the little old lady rushing around, clearly startled to have this group of patrons.

Dish after steaming dish is brought to the table - Bucky's mouth is watering, and Sam doesn't wait to dig in. Green curry, yellow curry, red curry, deep fried spring rolls, a whole roasted fish with lime and basil, an herby green salad piled high with sizzling beef and three enormous bowls of rice.

He doesn't remember afterward what the conversation is: you're teasing, Sam is grumbling around mouthfuls of food, and Bucky is laughing until his sides hurt. His tongue is burning, but he doesn't really notice. There's lukewarm water, and a frothy mango drink.

Stars are twinkling in the sky by the time the dishes are finally cleaned out and empty, and the little lady carries them back inside the shack. Moths flutter around the lightbulb above. Sam leans back in his chair, patting his protruding stomach as he sighs in contentment. Bucky feels similarly - watching as you chug from a bottle of water, he stretches out his legs and his knee bonks into yours. Your eyes meet his - there's a shadow of a smile.

"I'm beat," Sam says, closing his eyes in bliss. "I'm almost ready to forgive everything that has happened to me in the last five days."

"And just think, we have nine hours in the Quinjet," you tease, laying out a stack of Thai bhat to pay for the meal. "Then you'll definitely be more forgiving."

Sam groans. "I can't even think about facing Tony right now." Then he hoists himself up, rubbing his eyes blearily. "I'm gonna go lay down in the back of the Jeep. I need to digest before we get in the air."

Bucky meets your eyes over the table - and quickly looks away to keep from laughing. Sam's footsteps fade, and the chatter of the deep night activity down the street takes over. Just for a few moments.

"I thought he'd never leave," you sigh, and you reach over to cover Bucky's hand with yours. He arches a brow, noting your smirk.

"You think you're getting that outta me, babe?" Bucky scolds. "After all this?"

"All this?" you feign innocence, eyes wide and sparkling in the glow from the overhead lightbulb.

"Fake dating Sam; running off to Thailand for what was practically a vacation - cozying up to some sort of fight club financier," Bucky says coldly.

"It was the  _mission_ ," you say with a laugh. "Would've preferred you to Sam, anyway - but you had your paperwork after that whole thing in Rio - "

"Don't - " Bucky points a finger at your face. " - even  _think_  about bringing that up, you little wench."

You attempt a serious face for about five seconds - then your lips twitch, your eyes sparkle, and you're laughing aloud - Bucky sighs, grumbling a bit to himself.

"You scared me, alright?" he growls at last, as you draw your hand away from his - he catches it, and leans forward on his knees to address you in a softer voice. "Thinking my girl was halfway across the world - in prison, getting beaten or starved to death, if she wasn't dead already…"

"Aw, Buck," you coo, and lean forward as well, so that your faces are about two inches apart. Bucky can smell your familiar scent, but it's tinged by some exotica he doesn't recognize. "You were worried about me."

"'Course I was," he says gruffly. "And now I'm almost thinking I lost you to some gang leader - "

"Hardly a gang," you tease.

"Whatever." Bucky traces little circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. The noise of the streets is far away - as far as he's concerned, it's just you and him. Him, and your smile.

"I hope Sam sleeps on the jet," you say softly.

"There's always some of those heavy meds Stark keeps on hand we can sneak into some water or something," Bucky suggests, and you giggle.

"I  _like_  that idea, Sergeant Barnes," you croon. "Good to know you haven't lost your romantic flair since I've been away."

Bucky is laughing as he hoists you to your feet, and keeps an arm around your shoulders to return to the Jeep.


	30. Detective Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre reveal - Bucky’s been acting strange lately - Steve’s driven bonkers by the curiosity. There are puzzle pieces to be put together here, he knows it…

Steve is troubled.

If he didn't know Bucky so well, he might have started worrying along the lines of drugs, sketchy crimes, or bad groups. But Bucky isn't like that - he never has been.  _Secretive_  isn't a word to describe Bucky at the worst of times, and certainly not now, when he's been doing so well.

Steve frowns across the table in the briefing room, his arms folded across his chest. He's not listening to Tony talking about the mission which had been completed yesterday (no one else is, either), and Steve is finding Bucky's mannerisms bother secretive and suspicious.

Bucky is  _smiling_.

Not that Bucky doesn't smile. Because he does. During poker nights, during funny movies, when he's teasing Sam. But this is not the Bucky-Smile from any of those instances.

This is a soft, sappy smile.

Steve hasn't seen this smile since 1943.

His brows pinch. Bucky's lips are twitching, his blue eyes wandering a bit as his flesh fingers drum noiselessly on the table.

 _This_ smile hasn't been out since Bucky was chatting up a French nurse at a USO camp that February, 1943. Steve can't remember her name - maybe Juliette - but Bucky had been leaning against a big old oak tree as he smirked and cooed and flirted, and the poor girl was blushing and spluttering and had to be dragged away by her fellow nurses.

If Steve didn't know better, he might suspect Bucky of having a crush.

But there aren't any women in the briefing room for him to be crushing on - well, there's Natasha, but Steve is pretty sure Bucky isn't brave enough to have a crush on Nat - and there's you - but you're just about the same. Rumor down in security is someone on the street tried to get handsy with you once, and ended up with two broken hands in the hospital.

It's all very strange.

Steve sighs to himself that night, lying on his back in bed and staring at the ceiling with his fingers laced behind his head. Once again, he can hear the faint  _whoosh_  of Bucky's door down the hall. Escaping again. Every night since returning from Portugal. And before that - now that Steve thinks about it, Bucky has been disappearing every night he hasn't been on a mission for two months.

Part of him wants to go out and confront Bucky, but the better part insists that it's none of his business - not really. No matter how concerned he is. Bucky can take care of himself. Even if it  _is_  a girl.

Steve doesn't fall asleep until 3 a.m., after Bucky's return and getting only a scant three hours of sleep before his alarm goes off.

If it's messing up his sleep, he  _should_  talk to Bucky about it, Steve thinks irritably as he drags himself out of bed for his morning run.

"Morning, everyone," is your cheery entrance that morning in the gym - Steve gives a generic reply before choosing a heavier set of weights. He doesn't listen as you chatter with Nat, jibe Sam, and greet Bucky.

Bicep curls. Ten reps of ten with his special, Stark-made weights. They're in one-hundred-pound implements. Steve chooses two-hundred, and starts.

Absently through his counting Steve hears Sam retreat to the showers, and Natasha to go find Clint for a sparring session. Steve mentally wishes her good luck with that - Clint's still sleeping.

First rep down.

"Wanna spar?" Your voice, as Steve shakes out his arms with some deep breathing.

"Wanna lose?" Bucky snarks back. Steve smiles to himself. He likes having Bucky back.

"Oh, please. Remember last week? I decimated you."

"I wasn't up to par," Bucky retorts. There's the sound of footsteps on the padded mats. "You caught me on a bad day."

"You were  _distracted_. You always are, around me."

Now that's funny, Steve thinks. He can plainly pick out the teasing in your voice - but instead of growling like he does at Sam when Sam teases him, Bucky just laughs. A light-hearted sort of laugh. Funny, and strange.

"You play dirty," is Bucky's response. "Wanna try something different today?"

**"Does it require a bra?"**

A snort. "I was thinking along the lines of aikido."

"Aww, the grandpa wants to dance."

"It's not dancing, you goof - "

Steve picks up his weights again, a frown now creasing his brows. Weird teasing. Bucky generally doesn't joke around like this with anyone. He hasn't, for decades. Well - who can blame him. You're always teasing someone - it's just the way you are. Steve has seen firsthand how talented you are at reading people and urging them to open up.

"If you want, we can waltz." Your voice is quieter now, and Steve's ears prickle as he pumps his arms. "Tango? Salsa?"

"How about Saturday at eight?"

Steve bites his lips together, breathing hard through the silence behind him.

"Cute. Didn't realize you were so eager to rob the cradle."

"Square off," Bucky demands, but his voice isn't angry. It's  _fond_.

Steve nearly drops his weights.

Bucky has the hots for  _you_.

After that encounter in the gym, Steve's suspicions are strengthened time and time again. You, sneaking ice cream out of Bucky's dish and not getting a whack for it (Bucky's usual response). You and Bucky being paired off on recon, and not complaining about it - which is especially suspicious, because each of you complain about everyone else. Steve even intercepts several coy looks, when no one else is really around but you and Bucky.

Steve isn't really sure what to think about it. Especially as it becomes more and more obvious this isn't a one-sided thing - you  _adore_  Bucky. It  _reeks_.

Bucky and Agent 28...it just seems so  _unlikely_  - you're so upfront and Bucky...hasn't been in years. You're playful. He's...well, he's playful around you, Steve's beginning to notice.

But the clincher is two weeks later, when Steve is on his way to find Nat when he stops, pauses, and quirks his head down the hall. He'd thought he was the only one on the residential levels, but apparently not. But...those voices aren't coming from anyone's rooms. They're coming from a linen closet.

What?

Steve takes a few brisk steps down the hall, utterly baffled. Then a long, husky sighs sounds from behind the door, and his every hair stands on end as his steps freeze.

" _Bucky_ ," comes the sigh again - no, a moan. That's  _your_  voice. Uh oh. There's a ragged grunt in response and some rustling - clothes? - and Bucky's low voice,

"Babe, you're gonna be the death of me. Strutting around in that holster like - "

Well, Steve has heard enough. He turns on his heel, his face  _flaming_  hot and his vision even spotting white in his embarrassment as he presses his lips close together. He has got to calm down before he sees Natasha, or she'll be onto him. And Steve knows, even in his horrific discovery, that if Bucky and you are keeping your relationship secret, then Steve needs to respect that.

But Steve is going to keep his lips shut anyway, and trust that Bucky will tell him when he's ready, or at least realize that closets aren't very private. Steve does  _not_  need to hear any of that, ever again.  _Never_.

If only it was the last time it happened.


	31. Make Me Forget My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-reveal (also sorry in advance for the smut 👀) - Bucky surprises you upon returning home from a mission...

It's the best possible 'welcome home' Bucky could ask for.

And he didn't even have to ask for it.

With a newly-gifted key to your apartment in his combat pants, he doesn't waste much time at the Avengers Tower cleaning up from the mission - none, actually - but mumbles an excuse to the others about needing a stronger cup of coffee than the machines in the Tower offer and books it.

He does manage to leave his guns behind, impressively enough.

Key into the lock of your apartment, already catching tendrils of your scent around the door, and Bucky creeps inside. Should've texted you first, but he kinda likes the idea of surprising you, too. Whether you're home or not.

You're home. He can hear your footsteps in the bedroom.

Your security is  _terrible_ , he thinks to himself as he wanders down the hallway. He needs to do something about that.

He knocks on the door, and there's a fumbling and a cocking of a gun - but when Bucky pushes the door in to peek his head through - you let out a long breath and lower the gun so that he's not staring into the barrel anymore. So maybe not the  _best_  'welcome home,' but definitely in his top five. It doesn't escape him that you're only wearing a bra and underwear - there's a bit of tantalizing dishevelment around your edges - a shower in the middle of the day - that's curious, and Bucky grins.

"Can I come in?" he asks huskily, eyes raking up and down to take you in. A smile twitches on your lips, and you flip the safety back on your Glock.

"No," you say shortly, and stow it back in the drawer at your bedside - and giving him an  _excellent_  view. "You stay out here. Punishment for the heart attack."

"Babe…" Bucky whines a little, his hand tight on the doorknob as you turn back. The glint in your eye doesn't bode well - but it's pretty promising, too. He sticks out his lower lip, but you just laugh. "Why aren't you dressed, anyway?"

"It's my apartment," you say in a low voice. A yawn splits your lips, and you reach your arms over head in a languid stretch - and Bucky's jaw drops. His pants are getting very tight, very fast. And you know it. "A girl's allowed to wander around half-clothed if she wants," you tease lightly, with a coy smile.

"The perfect opportunity for a bad guy to come in," Bucky says dryly.

"Oh, but you're not a bad guy, are you?" Ugh, that  _sultriness_  in your voice -  _why_  is he still outside your door. And  _why_  do you have to adjust your underwear around your backside, tilting slightly to give him a better view -

"Let me in," Bucky says hoarsely.

"My heart rate hasn't returned to normal yet."

"I can get it goin' fast again, babe - but for the right reasons."

"Oh,  _that's_  promising." You're still smiling. Bucky still has the distinct sensation he's in trouble - licking his lips, his eyes feast on your little saunter as you wander towards your neatly made bed, and collapse with a sigh, fingers laced behind your head.

He's probably going to die at your door, he decides. And there's no better way to go.

"C'mon, babe," he tries again. "I've been gone a week. Didn't you miss me? Didn't you miss the way I can make you go wild by loving you so good?"

"Oh, I missed you alright." You peek open an eye, and grin over at him. "Trust me. I did."

Bucky  _likes_ that tone in your voice. With a grunt he pulls down the crotch of his pants, and your gaze flickers down.

"Got a problem there, pal?" you tease.

"My problem is  _you_ ; all dolled up like that and sprawled out waiting for me. Let me in."

A sigh, and you shift on the bed. Your skin is glowing in the muted sunlight through the sheer white curtains, and Bucky's pretty sure he's about to start physically drooling. "No," you muse at last. "You need to learn to knock first."

He thinks for a moment, and then pulls the door shut. And lifts a fist to knock politely.

"Who is it?"

"It's Bucky. Your boyfriend. Can I come in, or should I have made an appointment?"

Your giggle through the door is completely adorable - and he smiles a little sappily to himself as he adjusts his pants again.

"I dunno, Buck," is your reply, with a slight sigh in your tone. He can hear you shifting on the bed, and his breathing is coming up short - how much more teasing is this gonna take? He  _hurts_  in his pants. Metal whirrs as his fingers clench into a fist.

"Babe, c'mon," he groans. "I've missed you so much. I wanna make you feel so good."

"By sneaking up on me?"

"I'm  _sorry_!"

A laugh. And then, mercifully - "Come in!"

Bucky barges through the door, already undoing his belt as his eyes drink you in. Oh, you'd taken off your underwear, your eyes all hooded and your gaze all dark. His heart is in his throat; your hands are running up your bare thighs, and as he's getting tangled in his own shirt you spread your knees -

Yeah, he's gonna combust. A frozen stare, and then he pulls off his shirt the rest of the way, and it falls to the ground.

"What's taking so long?" you tease, in a low voice that makes goosebumps race up his spine. Bucky drags his eyes up to yours, and grins.

"Now who's impatient," he drawls back, sliding down his zipper as  _y_  as he can imagine as your lips part, sucking in a breath.

"Bucky…" It's a warning, and a challenge.

"What, you gonna start touching yourself if I take too long?" Bucky asks, smirking as your brows lift in surprise.

"You want me to?"

"Yeah. I wanna see you."

Your gaze not moving from his face -  _challenge accepted_  clear in the quirk of your lips, your fingers trail down your thigh, and dip between your legs. Bucky's gut turns something funny, and he groans under his breath without realizing it. His trousers drop to the floor, and he steps out of them.

"Bucky…" A sigh, this time, and your back arches as your eyes squeeze shut. "Bucky - it should be  _you_."

Instantly he's on the bed, crawling up to meet you - gently he pushes your hand away, and replaces it with his own. A moan strangles in your throat, which he presses his lips to. A tender moment, and then his teeth start grazing against your collarbone as he plunges his fingers into you.

This time your moan isn't stopped - it fills the room, and makes his bones quake.

Bucky trails his lips up your jaw, and your eyes flutter open to meet his. Then you smile - clearly smug. "I missed you," he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. "I thought about doing this to you every day."

A sigh. "I thought about it, too."

He chuckles. "Not too much, I hope."

" _Way_  too much."

Bucky isn't sure he likes that glint in your eyes as you laugh - so he moves his fingers a little more, and with a gasp you melt against him. Perfect.

"Did  _you_  touch yourself?" you murmur, peeking open an eye.

"Shared a bunk with Sam," Bucky says. "And besides - not as good as you, babe."

"I'm glad." With a smirk, your fingers have found where he's hottest and tightest - he swallows back a groan as you stroke him, and he strokes you faster. Your back arches - your lips part - and he takes the perfect chance to slip his tongue into your mouth, tasting your taste that he loves so much -

You start to clench around him, and Bucky slips his fingers right out. A squawk of protest, but he doesn't mind - meeting your indignant gaze with his challenging one, he lifts his fingers to his lips, and sucks them clean.

"You  _did_  miss me," he jokes.

"Oh, come  _on_  - "

"That's what you get for making me wait outside the door," Bucky adds snidely, and kisses the tip of your nose. "You taste good, babe. I want more."

"No," you grumble, pushing him back with a hand to his chest. "If you're gonna act this way, you don't get to call the shots. Get on your back."

Okay. He'll do that.

But at least he still gets what he wanted - your knees on either side of his head, and your fingers yanking in his hair as he throbs painfully down below. Oh well. He can wait. You, evidently, can't - and only last about two minutes.

Bucky eyes your heaving breasts, your parted lips and skin getting damp and glowy from sweat. A perfect sight, really, even if his tongue is starting to ache. When your quivering and shaking is slowing, and your breathing is returning to normal, he runs his hands up your back, around your hips to span your waist.

"Bucky…" His name is like a pleading prayer from your lips. It makes him feel  _good_  that he can do this to you; that you come apart for him again and again and no one else get to see you like this - so utterly loved and disheveled in every way. Raw. Perfect. "Bucky," you say again, swiping your lips with your tongue. "I - I need you to take me. Like you've been missing me. Make me forget my name."

"You don't have a name," he teases.

"You  _know_  what I mean - you goober - "

Oh, yes, he does. A feral grin crawls up his face, and as you tenderly back away so he can sit up, he crashes his lips to yours as your hands reach up to tangle into his hair again.

"C'mon, babe," he murmurs raggedly into your ear. Hands on your waist, he turns you onto your stomach - he kisses down your neck and spine, lifting your hips as he stands, sort of steadily, on the floor beside the bed.

 _This_  is a pretty darn good 'welcome home.'

Bucky uses his fingers first; the flesh ones, because he doesn't want you tensing up, as his metal fingers draw out goosebumps across your bare back. Your moan is muted by the covers of the bed, you lift your head and grumble in an adorably shaky voice,

"Get on with it! I'm tired of teasing."

"Ok, babe. Whatever you say." Bucky dips low, pressing his lips to the back of your neck as he draws his fingers out. Then he thrusts inside, and you clench around him almost painfully - but so,  _so_  good. "Ugh - " is his groan into your ear. "I missed you - "

"Show me."

His hips snap forward, knocking the breath out of you with a sigh. He keeps going, each little gasp spurring him on, and he drags his still-wet flesh fingers to the puckered ring of muscle above where he's thrusting. A little rubbing, as you moan against him, and he pushes a finger inside.

Bucky nearly whites out at the sensation - velvet walls all around him, squeezing and shuddering in the most painfully arousing way - wet and hot and slick and tight and practically  _caressing_  -

"Don't stop!" Is that begging, from you? Amazing. "Buck - Bucky - please - " And the pleas lapse into  _ah! ah!_ 's that fill his ears in the most wonderful way - he's gonna burst, he knows it - driving into you he's gonna forget his  _own_  name - and he's totally okay with that.

A high keening - you're shaking against him, and he thrusts faster. He has to. Even the shuddering fear that he'll finish before you - he powers through. He wants you to come apart for him, he wants to feel it all around him -

And he does. Sheets are gripped into your fists, and your spine goes slack. Breathing heavily, Bucky slows, and stops.

"Did - did you finish?" your breathy question is so,  _so_  cute after that - he just chuckles, and bends low again to kiss your back.

"So soon?" he teases. "Have you forgotten your name yet?"

"Maybe. Have you forgotten yours?"

"Takes a lot less than that to make me forget mine, babe."

"Don't ruin the moment."

"Sorry, sorry…"

Slowly, languidly - you crawl back onto your knees. Bucky keeps a hold on your waist from behind, kissing along your shoulders and neck as your head lolls with a soft sigh, clearly enjoying the attention. "I'm glad you didn't finish," you whisper, and his teeth clamp down on your earlobe.

"Why's that?" Bucky asks, amused and a little surprised.

"It's  _your_ turn."

"Should I be terrified by that tone in your voice, or aroused?"

"Whatever you like." You twist in his arms, and he appreciates the full force of mischief in your smile. Yeah, he's in for it. A little nod, and he crawls into the bed, still painfully erect.

"Is this thanks for me loving you so good?" Bucky asks a little hoarsely, as you settle between his spread legs.

"Or should it be punishment?" you retort, eyes bright.

"Um - for what, exactly?"

You shrug, fingers curling around the bottom of his shaft. "I'll think of something."

"I'm sure you -  _ugh_  - can - "

His eyes roll back in his head as your sweet, warm mouth envelops him. It feels  _damn_  good - and as this takes less effort on this part, he can appreciate being back home after such a lonely mission. He hadn't even been able to call you, this time -

Your opposite hand trails down between his legs, and he nearly jolts off the bed. "Babe - " he starts to say in a shaky voice - but then your tongue is trailing down, too - and Bucky's pretty sure this is the day he dies.

 _Best_  way to go.

"I - I - I didn't know," he tries to talk, even though he's tense from his skin to his bones, his head to his toes. "That - that this could feel so good - "

You pause to reply. "'Course you didn't," you coo. "You just need me."

"Yeah - yeah I do. Babe! What the - "

A taste of his own medicine, he surmises, half-jerking away at the surprising sensation of your finger inside of him. Surprising - not unpleasant. Really good, actually. Incredibly good. Then your finger curls slightly, and he groans loudly.

"Don't stop," he pants. His eyes are squeezed shut, every muscle tense and ready to spring - and your lips are trailing back up to his shaft again as your finger continues its gentle motions. A white haze is taking over his brain - a hot haze, where the only conscious thought is  _you_  - not even what you're doing because he's pretty sure he had no freaking idea what you're doing, except that it feels so good he almost wants to cry. Your mouth is warm and wet and your finger is - well, it's doing something magical, and before he can do more than grunt in surprise, the white haze bursts into a hot eruption that coats his stomach as you pull away, and Bucky can barely breathe.

"What - " he gasps. "The.  _Hell_."

Oh, your smirk - he wants to kiss it off your face.

"I'll clean you up," you chirp. Bucky just stares at your face, utterly lost - as you get up to go to the bathroom. His mind is still going a hundred miles an hour, and his head falls limp against the pillow as he rubs his eyes.

A stream of cursing filters through his brain. And then a whooshing tsunami of gratitude and love, as a warm washcloth slides over his stomach.

"Babe," he murmurs, trying to catch your hand - but you laugh and wander away again. Bucky wants to drag you back - to get up and wrestle you if he has to (and he'd like to) - but his limbs won't move from their very heavy, splayed out and exhausted sprawl. Thankfully, you return and crawl right up to his side, and he pulls you tightly to his chest.

"Mmm." Contentment from you - and Bucky's eyes sink shut as his fingers trail up your back and arm. Your legs tangle with his, and he lets out a long breath.

"If this is punishment," he says after a while. "I'm gonna sneak up on you more often."

He gets a pinch to his waist for that - he grunts, but you laugh, and the sinking sun behind the curtains makes the room glow in a golden haze; warm and homey.

Bucky dozes with a bleary smile on on his lips.


	32. Bucky's Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-retirement. Director Fury shows up with a mission, but gets sidetracked by the most irresistible of opponents…

Fury wasn't sure what to expect when he knocked on the bright blue door.

It takes a minute for footsteps to sound; hands on his hips, Fury eyes the boxwood wreath, the bright blossoms spilling from the window flower boxes, and the porch swing squeaking slightly in the wind. More domestic than he expected. But somehow he's not surprised, either.

The blue door opens, and Fury tries  _very_  hard not to look at the pink-bejeweled tiara on Bucky Barnes' head. Doesn't succeed. Forces his eyes back to Barnes'.

"Oh, hello," Bucky says, and a grin stretches across his face. It throws Fury for a loop, almost - he's not used to Barnes smiling, even after all this time. You'd done quite the number on the man.

"I have a mission for you," Fury says without preamble. "Where's the missus?"

"At the store," Bucky says promptly. "She'll be back in a half-hour. Come on in."

Fury bristles, but steps over the threshold and onto a woven rug over hardwood floor. Bucky locks the door behind him, and after a moment, Fury hangs up his trenchcoat on the coat rack, right next to two pink rain jackets; one patterned with flowers and one with rubber ducks.

"Daddy!" comes a shriek from further inside the little house. "The cookies are ready!"

"Be right there!" Bucky calls back, and then shoots Fury another grin. "Hungry?"

"How many licked fingers have made it into the batter?" Fury asks, not missing a beat. Bucky chortles, and waves him inward.

"You'll see."

The cookies are imaginary, but the twin girls with bright Bucky-blue eyes and flickering Agent 28-dimples are not. Fury blinks as Bucky sits down on the ground at a small table, laden with empty cups and saucers. It's all a bit freaky - the Winter Soldier solemnly accepting a pink teacup from his daughter with his metal hand, and pretending to sip from it. And then blowing on it, because "it's too hot." But Fury is used to not being frazzled by things that hurt his head. And Bucky Barnes, surrounded by stuffed animals and sequin pillows, is one of those things.

One of the girls stands up in her purple tutu, and holds up a turquoise teacup to Fury. "Thank you for coming," she says politely. "I hope you like mint."

"I do," Fury says gravely, and pinches the handle of the cup between his fingers. "I didn't realize we were having a party, otherwise I would've brought  _my_  tiara."

The girl giggles, and the one still sitting gasps. "We have an extra! I'll go get it!"

"No, Winnie - I wanna get it - "

"Winnie will get it," Bucky says firmly. "Beck, I need a refill." And a narrowed look is shot to the elder daughter at Fury's side, who scampers back to the table to serve her dad more "tea."

Fury crouches down, and Winifred plops a purple tiara with feathers right on his head. She grins impishly, (why does the resemblance to 28's mischievous smile make him so nervous?), before bounding back to the party.

"Come sit," Rebecca says imperiously to Fury. She scoots closer to her dad, freeing up about a foot of space between her and Winnie.

He has no choice but to obey.

It's the sight you come home to a little while later - Fury is thankful he's not in the habit of blushing, because the sight of your raised eyebrows in the doorway of the girls' room while they dish out imaginary cake next, just might have set him over edge. A previously-unseen cat winds itself around your legs, yowling in greeting.

"Hello, Nick," you say with amusement, as Winnie runs up with a plate of cake for you, which you accept.

"28," he says stiffly.

"He has a mission for me," Bucky says offhand, as a teddy bear/Becca gives him a massive squeeze around the next. His nose crinkles, and he pats the bear on the back as Becks giggles.

"Well, it's getting late," you say after swallowing the "cake." The cat sniffs at the empty plate. "Stay for dinner, Nick?"

Fury pretends to think about it. "As long as it's something good. I've been spoiled with all these rich snacks this afternoon." Winnie hides a giggles behind a hand, and Fury sends her a deadpan wink. Bucky snorts.

"It's always good," you assure him. "And you know us - we never talk missions on an empty stomach. Makes us reckless."

"It's true," Bucky agrees.

"Sounds like a plan, then."

Becca hops a bunny into Fury's lap next, and he pets its soft ears.

He's still brushing off purple fuzz from his black shirt after dinner; when he's full of pasta and it's time for ice cream to be passed around. The cat is meowing on the ground, but is generally ignored as the girls start slurping up their dessert. Fury eats his with more decorum.

"No," Bucky says firmly to the cat. "No ice cream for you." It yowls again, tail flicking in the ear, and saunters off.

A spoonful of chocolate ice cream drips onto Rebecca's shirt - you reach for a napkin to pass to her, but she scoops it up with her fingers, practically shoving her entire fist in her mouth to lick clean as Bucky's eyes twitch.

"Honey, let's wash that shirt yeah?" he tries, making as if to stand.

"I'm saving it for later, Daddy."

"But honey…

"No. Dad."

Your eyes widen, and Bucky shakes his head at you. Fury doesn't laugh, even though he wants to. The Winter Soldier...at the mercy of his girls.

Fury is  _really_  glad he made the trip upstate, even if the house is a little far from the freeway.

When the girls are sound asleep in bed a little while later, the cat come back to wind itself around Bucky's shoulders in apparent forgiveness. The dining table gets wiped down, and Fury pulls out his phone to set up a projection at last. The sun is gone outside the windows, replaced by a purply dusk as you turn on the light above the table.

"I know him," you say, sitting back down beside Bucky with an orange as you nod your head towards the flickering photo in the projection. "He runs a trafficking ring in Shanghai. Almost got him once, but he slipped past us." You hold out a hand to Bucky; absently he pulls a knife from his jeans and passes it over to you.

"He looks familiar," Bucky admits. "Don't remember hearing about him in Shanghai, though. Thought it was Madame Zizi that did the bulk of trafficking there."

"After she was arrested, Mr. Ping picked up the market," Fury says. "I had six agents trailing him, but last week four of them disappeared. The Avengers are split between that government problem in Lebanon and the UN conference in New York City, otherwise I would be interrupting your little setup here."

Your lips twitch, as a curl of orange peel falls onto the table.

"I can take care of him," Bucky says, but his eyes are on you. "Got me a team?"

"As many agent as you need. Any specialities."

"Mandarin speakers, a couple men that can pass as creepy buyers," Bucky sighs. You slice off a sliver of orange, and hold it out to him - he leans over to slurp it right off the knife, and Fury raises a brow.

"I can take care of that," he says mildly. "I was hoping to leave tonight, if at all possible…"

The kitchen is quiet. You're still smiling, as you glance over at Bucky's rueful expression. And slurp up your own slice of orange. "You have to be back in two weeks for the girls' spring concert," you tell him. "They'd be devastated if you missed it."

"I know. Two weeks should be plenty of time to take down a gang leader, right babe?" Bucky says lightly, and Fury blinks - he's seen enough jabbering to know that some very real feelings were being suppressed here.

"You could do it in one, if you had me," you tease back.

"I don't doubt it." Eyes locked with yours, he takes another sliver of orange, and your smile stretches across your face. Fury coughs.

"I can give you a ride back to the city," he offers - a split second of silence that stretches through the entire kitchen with a shimmering sense of regret - and then Bucky nods.

The porch swing creaks, and Fury laces his hands behind his hands as he watches the stars come out above the treetops. In the yard dozens of lightning bugs are like stars on the ground; green and glowing as cicadas buzz distantly. Apart from that, it's quiet; the nearest neighbors are at least a mile away, and town is five, through foothills and forests. He likes it. Waiting for Bucky to suit up isn't so hard on his nerves with such a view…

Finally the blue door opens, and a porch light flickers on. All geared up and armed to the teeth, Bucky's lips are pressed in a grim line as he tucks some stray hair behind his ears. You follow, not smiling for once, and wait in the doorway as Fury stands.

"I appreciate you taking this on last minute," he says - to Bucky  _and_  you. "We'll get you back before your concert."

"Thank you, Nick," you tell him. Bucky turns back, and squeezes your hand. Fury looks away, and starts down the porch steps. After a moment, Barnes follows.

* * *

Not for the first time, you check your watch as the babbling excitement builds in the auditorium. Two minutes 'til showtime, if it's punctual. Probably won't be. A shame, really - tonight's a night that you'd appreciate some delay. The Agent part of your brain throws out a few options to pause the show: find the electric panel and smash up some circuits; break the accompanist's ankle; and a classic - pull the fire alarm. Knee jiggling, you glance at the clock on the wall - one minute 'til.

The parents in the audience around you are quieting as teachers get up to close the doors. But from behind there's an "oops!", followed by a gasp and a polite "excuse me" - the last of which in a familiar voice that makes a smile curl your lips, and a shiver to crawl seductively up your spine. Then the doors clang shut, and a familiar tread comes down the aisle.

Even though you know he won't have any issues picking you out of the audience, it's difficult to resist turning 'round to watch his approach - so you don't - and twist in your seat to send a grin back. The lights are already dimmed, and Bucky's hulking shadow draws near. Mutters break out as he passes, and when he's about ten feet away, you realize he's still wearing his combat gear.

"Sheesh!" you whisper, as he ducks down to slide into the seat you've been saving next to you. "Couldn't have changed first?" A ripe, slightly barnyard-y scent is coming off of him - Bucky's face breaks into a grin, highlighting a splatter of dried blood across his face and neck. It's a tough call between admonishing him and laughing - so you cover your mouth with your hand, and giggle.

The lights on the stage go up, a scattering, nervous sort of applause breaks out, and the burn of stares on the back of your head only deepens your amusement. Bucky's metal arm goes over your shoulder (probably reflecting everywhere, but you aren't looking), and he tugs you close to whisper into your ear.

"Hey, babe. I made it."

"You cut it close," you murmur back, as the choir teacher mounts the stage. "When was the last time you showered? You stink!"

Bucky blinks. "Um - when did I leave, again?"

"Two weeks ago!"

"Yeah. It was then."

Wrinkling your nose, you give a soft snort as he tugs you close, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"At least I made it," he growls into your ear, and as his fingers find yours to wind through them, a few more shivers race across your skin, and a little sigh escapes your lips.

"Yeah, you've shown up to your daughters' elementary school chorus concert in full combat gear and  _blood stains_ ," you tell him out of the corner of your mouth. "I'm going to tell  _everyone_. You'll never live this down."

The first stream of kids - the youngest class, with Becks and Winnie in the very center as the tallest - start filing on the stage. Bucky's fingers squeeze yours, and his nose nuzzles into your hairline.

"Missed me?" he murmurs.

"So much. We all did."

The children are all lined up, and you grin as Rebecca nudges Winifred and jerks her head towards Bucky, and both their faces light up.

"Worth it," Bucky whispers, and gives them a little wave.

"Yeah," you whisper, and snuggle deeper into his one-armed embrace. "It is."


	33. Close Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-reveal: Usually paired missions go great. Sometimes they don’t.

The mission went sour as soon as the dozen extra guards had rushed in with automatics.

Only six were on the floor you and Bucky had been scoping out; the other six went against Steve and Nat on a lower level. But that's no consolation as a pinging of gunshots sends you hurling to hide behind a series of metal pipes, and Bucky behind a generator of some sort on the opposite side of the room. Bullets ping off the metal, and send concrete bits and dust from the floor flying up in the air.

The round in your gun is empty; as the Hydra agents spew out bullets from their guns blowing up the chamber (they're not smart, these guys), you make quick work of shoving a new magazine into your Glock.

"The control panel is on our level," Natasha's breathless voice comes through the coms, and then there's a grunt and a yelp. "You guys get out and clear the way for us. We'll get the data."

"You assume that we'll be able to get out," you retort, peering around your shoulder - nope, more bullets spray into the air, and you duck back.

"You're clever. Improvise." This from Steve, with a clang and an oof.

"What do you think Buck?" you ask through the com, since it's too loud with the gunfire to shout. "They have the numbers and the high ground." Referring, of course, to the fact that the attackers are standing on a metal walkway about fifteen feet above you.

"They're almost out of ammo," he says back, and you see him looking around the entire chamber. "I can distract them while you pick them off."

"Aren't you the sniper?" you snark.

"Doesn't matter. I'm more bulletproof." There's a flash of that wicked smile on Bucky's face - even across the room, under fire, you can't help smiling back.

The gunfire stops.

Bucky ducks around the generator, making for the walkway as the guards start to shout for extra guns or more ammo. You twist, bracing your arm against the pipes and aiming -

One shot, two shots, three shots, four and five - three guards crumple with shrieks. Not bad.

Bucky is at the walkway now, and even as the last guards fumble with pistols, he leaps up so that he's dangling from the metal - idiot, you think, as you reload with your final magazine. As it clicks into place, Bucky has pulled a knife from a sheath around his thigh and stabbed one guard in the foot, pinning him to the walkway.

The guard is screaming as he falls to the ground. It hurts your ears. Bucky starts to swing up to get a foothold, but -

The two guards left take advantage of Bucky's precarious position. Even as you aim, they go for punches and kicks at his face, his metal arm still clinging to the ledge - jaw clenching with nerves, you can't get a proper shot. Bucky's in the way.

Well, that's that, then.

A brisk run has you at the walkway in less than thirty seconds. The ladder you'd noticed before the guards had even shown up is unguarded, since most of them are down, and you scramble up.

"Hey Buck, why didn't you take the ladder?" you call, hoisting yourself up to stand, facing down the guards on the walkway.

"Sorry, babe, I was going for a more direct route," he grunts back, swerving to miss a jab to the nose.

"Just let go, you idiot, I can take them."

"Not without my help."

One of the guards pulls out a knife. Heart skipping a beat, you trod over the fallen guards to tackle him, but -

Too late. The knife is lodged in Bucky's shoulder where metal meets flesh, and he falls, metal fingers still clenched on the ledge. Before his groan ends with a heavy thud, you've slammed into the second guard.

Punch, jab, and a kick to the groin - with little else to do at close range, you knock him on the side of the head with the butt of your gun. His eyes roll back, and panting, you stand to see the final guard, tripping over a body as he scrambles backward in search of escape.

Like there's any point in that.

The sound of Bucky's ragged breathing far below is enough to boil your blood. If he's still conscious, healing is just a matter of time with super soldiers. Except for reckless idiocy, that is. No cure for that.

Time to clean up. Gun back to your thigh holster. There's a better idea in your mind.

Keeping your eyes on the last guard, you pry the metal fingers of Bucky's detached arm from the walkway, hoisting it up by the wrist. It's heavy and cold and sparking hot blue - a few steady steps to the guard as he opens his mouth - to beg, most likely - you lift the arm and swing it, smashing the thick metal shoulder into the side of his face.

He doesn't move again.

The walkway is almost quiet out; one or two guards are whimpering and blubbering, but you ignore them. Hastily you peer over the railing for Bucky - but he's on his feet, and despite looking very pale, he's smiling.

"You're very effective with my arm," he teases in a croak.

"Bucky!" you scold. "If you had let go when I told you to - "

"Yeah, yeah - I know what you're gonna say, babe. Save it. C'mon; let's clear an escape route for Steve and Nat. Toss me down my arm."

"If I do, I'll hit your head," you proclaim, heading back for the ladder. "On purpose."

"It wasn't that bad; babe. Didn't break a single bone."

You don't answer until you're back on the ground level, striding towards Bucky with your lips pursed. He's grinning. You stop in front of him, and shove the arm into his chest, which he fumbles to keep from falling.

"Risk your life like that again, and I will be the one breaking your bones," you say sweetly.

"Good to know care for me," Bucky snarks.

"I care for you by keeping you alive, dimwit. If you don't trust your partner on missions, I don't know why you even have this job."

A frown pinches his brows, but you don't stay to argue the point - turning your heel, you make for the door at the other end of the chamber to search out more people to beat up, because that seems like the only way to calm down your racing heart right now.

The twisting turns of your stomach with nerves and delayed fright; the anger born from fear and the indignity of having stomped around the warehouse only to find that it was now, essentially, unguarded - you stomp up to the roof where the Quinjet is waiting, and onto the gangway.

"We just got in," Natasha's voice pants as you unbuckle your vest. "Do we have ten minutes?"

"Third and rooftop levels are empty," you say shortly.

"So's the second," is Bucky's grunt. "Haven't heard a peep from anywhere. Think you've got more than ten."

"I'm readying the jet for a quick takeoff," you say, and pull out the com before tossing it into locker where you keep your gear. Vest gets shoved in next, and your belt with empty magazines and a few knives.

Heavy bootsteps sound on the gangway, and you slam the locker door shut before turning away to stalk towards the pilot's seat - but a hot hand catches yours, firm and too strong to break away from.

"Babe," Bucky's voice is beseeching. "I'm sorry."

A deep breath to calm your nerves, still frayed, and you turn to face him. He lets your hand drop. His eyes aren't glinting their usual sparkle, and the busted metal harm hanging off his flesh shoulder sparks weakly.

"Put that thing down before you electrocute someone," you say shortly.

Bucky's eyes narrow, but he shrugs it off, propping it up in one of the seats of the jet. Then he straightens, and meets your gaze with a quirk of his brow. Barely keeping your teeth from grinding, you cross your arms in front your chest, and stare back.

"Bucky," you say slowly, but his lips twitch.

"I really am sorry," he says. "I should've listened - I know you can cover my stupid ass."

"Yes, I'm very selfish that way."

Now there's a real grin on his face, but you keep your lips pursed.

"And don't call yourself stupid," you add tartly. "No one talks to my best friend that way."

Bucky's eyebrows shoot nearly into his hairline. "Best friend, huh?" he asks lightly, and you almost regret saying it.

"After today, I might be reevaluating that," you say with a sniff.

"Aw, babe…" A step closer, and Bucky is very much in your personal space - you've never minded him there, and his remaining arm strokes up yours as you take another deep breath.

"You've gotten some color back," you observe with a frown. "How much pain are you in?"

"Now that you don't like you're gonna kick me in the balls? Barely any."

A roll of your eyes. "I can get you some meds if you want - "

"You're the only drug I want." And Bucky's head dips, his lips hovering over yours for a few thuds of your heartbeat - sucking in his breath, you meet his blue eyes and give a shuddering sigh, your arms falling to your side at last.

It only takes that moment - your arms wind around his neck, careful to avoid the jagged remains of metal at his left shoulder, and Bucky cups the back of your head with his flesh hand to deepen the kiss. He tastes like dust and iron, but it's his taste, and you could kiss him all day and all night long.

As it usually happens - heated waves are rolling over you, sparking from your belly as a soft moan vibrates in your throat. Bucky responds with a grunt of his own, shifting where he stands. Pulling back, you gently trace his jaw as you search his expression for aggravation.

"Why don't you sit," you suggest softly, smiling at the warmth in his eyes. "I think you're in more pain than you let on."

"You know me too well." A lopsided grin, but Bucky obeys - keeping his hand clasped around yours, he lowers himself gingerly into a seat with a sigh.

"You scared me, you know," you tell him, squeezing his hand back. He smiles up at you for a moment without a word, and then tugs you close.

"I need more drugs," he deadpans.

"What do you take me for," you tease, throwing a leg over his as you lower yourself into his lap. "Some kinda drug dealer?"

"Uh, yeah, obviously."

Cupping his face, you laugh as Bucky chuckles at his own joke. Your nose nuzzles against his as his hand traces up the curve of your spine, and you lower your head to kiss him. Thoroughly. Let the desperate fear he'd put you through be shown in how you nip at his lips until they're extra pink, then soothe them with a swipe of your tongue…

He's enjoying it. The evidence is poking your stomach, and you're enjoying it, too. Tilting your hips forward, your center brushes against his crotch, and Bucky's breathing is suddenly very strained.

"Do you like that?" you coo, and grind against him again. His fingertips press into your hip, and you smile down into his darkening eyes.

"The others are gonna show up any second, and I don't even care," he murmurs, voice hoarse.

Holding his gaze, with a spark in your heart as breaths mingle, you keep going. Nose to nose, your thumbs brush against the scruff of his chin, and Bucky's hand slides up to grip the curve of your waist.

"Babe," he groans. "Keep going."

"I'm - not - stopping - " It's getting hard to speak. Leaning forward, you move a little faster, a little more frantically - and go for Bucky's lips again, letting his taste and scent fill your senses; every last iota of worry pushed away by his presence, his realness, his safety -

The heated tingles are getting more intense, spreading through your limbs with languid pleasure as the pressure between your legs just gets more eager, more desperate at each drag against his hardness. Bucky is pulling and dragging to help your movements as best he can, and when things finally explode he swallows your panting moans.

He doesn't hurry you on after that; just pecking little kisses on your flushed cheeks as you rest, eyes fluttering closed.

"Forgive me?" Bucky asks, lips on your throat as your head lolls.

"I'll consider it."

"If we had a little more privacy, I could make it up to you much better."

You can't help laughing, the sound husky even to your ears. "Hmm. I'm sure you could."

"Leave your window unlocked tonight?"

"I'll consider it." And you have already, of course - there may never be a reason to turn Bucky away. Biting back your smile, you let the warmth of his eyes settle over you, his little chortle, his flushed face and mussed hair…

Running footsteps bring you back to the present - scrambling off of Bucky's lap, you keep a hand on his chest to keep him from leaping up, too - he sends you a glare, and you're on your way up to the front of the jet as Steve and Natasha climb up the gangway at a jog.

"Took you long enough," Bucky snarks at them, as Steve's mouth falls open at the sight of the metal appendage lying across the seat. You snort to himself - at least he didn't see the condition you left Bucky in.

"What happened?" Steve asks, aghast.

"Bucky was an idiot," you call over your shoulder, starting the engines with the flip of a switch. "Do you really need any more explanation than that?"

"Nope," Natasha says, still a little breathless as she sinks into the seat beside you. "We got our intel. Thanks for clearing the way for us."

"Not a problem. Really," you chuckle as the gangway starts to lift. "All the guards on duty came for us at the same time. Didn't leave anyone behind as backup."

"Dumb," Natasha shakes her head.

"Yep."

"Buckle up," you say louder now. "And buckle up that arm, Bucky. Don't want that falling on the floor when we take off."

Natasha sniggers under her breath, but you hear in the silence behind, three clicks of buckles. And a click that sounds like a picture being taken on a phone.

"Steve," Bucky growls.

"Sorry - it just looks really funny."

The laughter echoing as the jet finally rises in the air does wonders to make you forget those scary few minutes of the mission. Guess it hadn't been so bad, after all.


	34. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-reveal, immediately following "Kiss": Natasha makes a wager, to Sam’s chagrin.

The general stir begun in the language department of Avengers Tower leaks into the other departments in less than a two days, to the embarrassment of the perpetrators.  _One hundred dollars to whoever can successfully ask Agent 28 on a date_ : Miles and Rishi pray she never finds out it was  _them_.

Neither of them even  _try_  for the date. Forget the money - they just don't want to be garrotted.

Natasha finds all of this very amusing, of course - she's perfectly aware that Agent 28 isn't in the habit of garrotting office workers, even if they do have a habit of obnoxious pranks. 28 would just think it's hilarious. Because that's just the way she is.

But Bucky has found it all less than amusing, and so Nat just smirks to herself and hunkers down to watch all of the drama unfold. It's very promising: she had seen the mischief in 28's eyes and the new ease in Bucky the morning after karaoke night. That night which Sam had so kindly informed Natasha of the bet in Bucky's presence. Sam doesn't know why it's so funny -  _yet_ \- nor why Natasha had been laughing so hard after Bucky and 28 had made their staggered disappearances.

A smile drifts up Natasha's face as she absently stirs the honey into her tea, standing at the sink and gazing out the window to the bright morning sun bathing Manhattan. She hears the footsteps approach, and doesn't turn around.

"I want in," she says without preamble.

"Huh?" Sam's morning voice is still groggy.

"On the bet. Remember? Agent 28? Date?"

"Oh." There's a sound as Sam rifles with the coffee pot. "Uh - are  _you_ gonna ask her on a date?"

"No," Natasha says, because she values her life and Bucky is a formidable opponent. Even if she  _does_ think you might agree to split the prize money. Patiently she explains, "I'm saying, I want to bet on the outcome."

There's a snort over the steady pour of liquid. "Last I heard, odds are on Paul from security, and Steve."

"Steve? Our Steve?"

"Yeah." There's a slurp, and a grunt. Natasha grins to himself - Sam had burned his tongue. "Apparently the general consensus is that 28 likes blonds," Sam adds. "Not fair."

"Whether it's fair or not, it's not true," Natasha murmurs, half to herself.

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. Paul's cute, isn't he? He does a lot of squats."

A pause. "Why does everyone have a crush on Paul, anyway?" Sam grumbles. "Doesn't have a brain behind that handsome face - "

Natasha turns around, blowing on her tea before taking a sip. Sam is leaning against the counter, coffee mug in hand, and looking grouchy. And still sleepy. "I want to put $500 down on Bucky," Natasha states.

Sam's mouth falls open. "On -  _Tinman_?"

"Yes," Natasha says firmly.

Silence. Sam is staring at her as if his brain has completely stopped working - but Nat just keeps smiling, and takes another sip. Then Sam shakes himself, giving a laugh.

"No way. There's no chance."

"Why's that?" Natasha prods.

"That grump? And 28?" Sam laughs again - even the mere idea is apparently hilarious. "Please. She'd eat him alive."

"Maybe he likes that."

"Gross. Please don't fill my head with those mental images."

"But I'm in, right? On the bet?"

Sam shrugs. "Sure. It's your loss."

But Natasha just smiles. Sam doesn't see the warning.

* * *

Bucky had it all planned out.

Monthly poker night - first Friday of the month - with all the team minus Stark around the dining table with the lights down low to set the mood (Sam's idea). It's easily the most casual of the team's interactions, with past and future missions far from anyone's thoughts. Including his. And his attention? Across the table on you.

As usual.

"Fold," Clint sighs.

"Fold," Steve shrugs.

"I'm in." Natasha tosses in a chip.

Your turn. Your lips purse, as if thinking - but if Bucky knows that sparkle in your eyes, you've already planned your moves. Then without a word, you push five chips into the center.

"On second thought," Natasha says after a moment's shocked silence. Steve and Clint are shaking their heads; Sam appears to be having a major moral conundrum as he frowns at the cards in his hands.

"Hey Steve, did you end up getting those tickets to the Knicks this weekend?" Bucky asks, casual-like, as he tosses in his cards. Doesn't care. He's playing a different game.

"Huh?" Steve's face is pinched. "Uh - no, I didn't."

"Bummer."

"Which is just as well," Steve adds, as Sam gnaws his lips in thought. You're just sitting primly, waiting for Sam's decision. "Stark put me in charge of Clint and Nat for the Somalia mission. Just found out a few hours ago."

"Babysitter," Natasha clarifies.

"Well, if Clint hadn't accidentally blown up that bridge in France two weeks ago - " Steve begins, a little crabbily, but Sam interrupts as he pushes his chips into the center of the table. Now this might get interesting - Bucky holds back a grin at the smugness in your face.

"It was an accident!" Clint protests.

"Ante up," you say, and three more chips go in the center.

"I hate this," Sam says.

"Geez, Stevie, if you're not gonna be here, there go my weekend plans," Bucky says with a dramatic sigh. "I saw there's a Glenn Miller revival band playing in Queens Saturday night. Thought that might be fun, if the Knicks didn't go through."

"Glenn Miller?" you say with interest, eyes dragging over to Bucky. He likes that glint. "My grandfather played trumpet with Glenn. Talked about it all the time."

"Did he, now?" Bucky lifts a brow back, even though he's heard the stories a dozen times already.

"You have a grandpa?" Sam snarks at you. "A family? Man, 28, I thought you just popped out of the ground."

You stick your tongue out at him for that - well-deserved - but it's his parting shot before folding. Sam screws up his face, shakes his head, and tosses his cards in. Three two's - not bad. But your smile is growing as you turn your cards over, laying them out.

2, 3, 5, 6, and an 8.

"Aw, c'mon!" Sam groans, as you cackle madly. Even Natasha and Steve are laughing as you drag the chips over to you. The biggest stack of the night so far, easily. Bucky chortles to himself.

"If you wanna go see the band, 28, I was already planning on it," Bucky says, also very casually, as Steve scoops up the cards to shuffle.

"That sounds like fun," you say, just as nonchalantly as you stack your winnings. "Better than staying at home and eating ice cream with my cat."

Bucky snorts, though for a different reason than the others - you don't have a cat.

"Sounds like a date," Natasha teases, and Bucky freezes. But you just lift a brow.

"You could come too, but you're going to be gone," you say with a shrug. "Only Sam's gonna be here - Sam, you wanna come with us?"

Sam's mouth is opening and closing in some sort of shock - his eyes are on Natasha, then you, then Bucky. Whatever's going on in his head, Bucky doesn't really care to know. But he hopes it's a reason for refusal.

"No?" Sam says at last, as a question. "I mean, yes? How am I supposed to answer this, huh?"

"However you like, Sammy," you say kindly, before the flicker of your lips belays the teasing to come. "You can be our third wheel."

"Aw, hell naw!"

Bucky turns a laugh to a cough, picking up his new hand as he tries very hard not to meet your eyes. It's difficult. Oh, he's gonna laugh about this with you later…

"Fine," you tell Sam coolly. "Just me and Bucky, then."

The undercurrents are  _unbearable_ , to just about everyone but Clint. Natasha just smirks to herself, loving the entire scene and the hand Steve had dealt her. It feels good to be in charge, especially when no one else realizes it.

Poker goes on until past midnight; you duck out and head home, Bucky ducks out and goes to his room (or elsewhere), Clint flops over to the couch and starts to snore, Steve retreats to the bathroom, and Sam nearly hisses as the dining room quiets. Natasha just smiles.

"How did you know?" Sam accuses, brows furrowed.

"How  _don't_  you know?" she retorts.

"C'mon Nat - that was totally out of the blue! Did you plan that with them? What's going on?"

"Sam," Natasha says patiently, leaning forward so that her hands lace on the table as she grins at Sam's baffled expression. "Do you remember the first mission Agent 28 had with the team?"

"Uh - no."

"You weren't there, so you naturally don't know," she explains. "We were snatching up a scientist from being picked up by the wrong guys - Steve, Bucky, 28, and I. 28 shot a gun from around Bucky and he popped a boner. It was all very simple, and the rest is history."

Sam's lips are pressed close together in a very thin line - Natasha waits as he processes this.

"A - a bone...please don't put that image in my head!" Sam groans, and he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Nat, are you kidding me right now?"

"Definitely not," Natasha assures him. "I couldn't come up with anything more hilarious than this. They've been hiding their relationship for months - groping each other in supply closets, sneaking around on missions - remember Stockholm? Bucky wasn't really injured when he blew you guys off; he faked it so he could stay at the hotel with 28. Milan? They were doing it backstage of the fashion show; that's how they got to the targets first. The underwear you found in your laundry? 28's got mixed up with Bucky's stuff."

"Stop!" Sam's face has crumpled entirely - in disgust, horror, shock. "Don't tell me anymore, please. I'd prefer to stay ignorant."

"Ignorant or not, I win the bet," Natasha says smugly. "Better let everyone know Bucky got 28."

"Does - does anyone else know?" Sam asks after a moment, voice still a little shaky. "About... _them_."

"Steve knows."

"And he hasn't...talked to it about them?"

"Nah - Steve's too nice. He wants to let them keep doing whatever they're doing."

"Well, what they're doing sounds gross and unfit for my ears."

"Oh, it is." Natasha gives a laugh. "But as soon as you're used to it, you'll enjoy it much more. It passes the time to watch them sneak around."

" _Watch_  them!? Natasha, that is - "

"Not that kind of watch, you perv." She stands from the table, tossing the pack of cards across to Sam. "Just, don't tell Clint, yeah? He can't keep his mouth shut. We're letting them keep their secret. For now."

Sam shakes his head as Natasha starts to leave - but a sudden question has her pausing. "Nat - " he says slowly. "Do you think Bucky knows her real name?"

Natasha chuckles dryly. "Doubt there's much about her Bucky doesn't know."

"Ew, ew, ew,  _ew_ , - "

And she smiles all the way back to her room, a wealthier woman...

...until a few days later, when you reveal you knew about the bet all along and demand the payout in exchange for the indignity and harassment it caused you.

Well, it was fun while it lasted.


	35. Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-reveal: A barely-successful mission leaves you and Bucky with more than a few wounds. Without a way back to New York, you’ll have to fend for yourselves for a while.

Bucky's eyes are squeezed shut as your practiced fingers rove over him - a stream of curses starts to fall from his lips with an answering whimper from you. He won't be able to hold back much longer - he can't - he -

A shove, and a snap. He bites his tongue, drawing the irony taste of blood as his eyes water, and your hands leave his shoulder.

"Ow," he whispers, eyes burning with unshed tears. His left ear is ringing something awful - it's fortunate you're on his right, because otherwise he'd be full-on deaf to whatever you're saying.

"One injury fixed, a dozen left to go," you tell him wearily. Bucky lifts his head from the back of the chair he's been sitting backwards in - he tilts his face back to observe you leaning on one foot against the doorway to the tiny living space, lips pressed close together and your usual smile absent. You look about as fantastic as he feels - meaning, not at all.

"Your turn," he grunts.

"Don't remind me."

Bucky pushes himself tenderly to his feet - his movements are slow and laborious, but yours are, too - it had been quite the mission, and while the sustained wounds are worse than usual, he supposes he should be grateful you're both alive, and that Stark had had a safe house nearby. Not that Stark will appreciate the blood, dirt and other nasties your boots and his have dragged in.

Limping to the counter, his eyes focus and unfocus on the half-spilled bucket of first aid supplies. Wiggling his right fingers, much better now that his shoulder is back in place but still sore - Bucky glances back at your face, and picks up some gauze and hydrogen peroxide. The bloody nose and fat lip are definitely the worse looking, but from the way you're cradling your left calf, he can guess what he needs to go for first.

He limps back to the rickety chair as you gently lower yourself to sit - collapsing with a groan and a wince.

"Should've taken your pants off first, babe," Bucky sighs. "I can't work around them."

"Take them off yourself." With your eyes closed, head leaning back slightly - you're clearly half-out of it with pain. Dropping the supplies to the ground, Bucky pulls out his only remaining knife, (and he hopes Hydra appreciates the quality of the knives he'd left behind in the rush to escape), and slides the blade beneath the torn and bloody gash on your leg to slice off the fabric at your knee. It sticks to all the blood, and gently he pries it off.

"I hate this," you mumble after a minute, when he's finally gotten the garment off the stab wound, pooling around the top of your dirty boots.

"I know, babe," Bucky says sympathetically. "But just think - you can take revenge on me next. I think I broke a few ribs."

"I don't wanna take revenge." Your words slur slightly slightly. "I wan'us to be happy together."

"We will be," he assures you. "If we get better quick, this safe house is pretty private…" Bucky trails off, grinning to himself although he knows you can't see. You do give a snort, however, and then wince.

"I've already taken one pounding," you muse, as he dumps some peroxide on the gash - it frothes, and you nearly yelp, eyes shooting open.

"Sorry, sorry," Bucky apologizes quickly, already mopping up the liquid. "It's a shallow cut, babe. You got lucky."

"I sure don't feel lucky."

"And you're extra lucky because you're here with me, and my excellent nursing skills." With all the blood cleaned away, the cut really does look better - Bucky tears off some gauze with his teeth, and starts winding it around your calf.

"What nursing skills?" you ask with amusement. "Outdated tips you flirted out of the nurses during World War II?"

"And what's wrong with that?" Bucky asks indignantly. Tying off the gauze into a tidy knot, he yanks it tight - and you laugh and give a strangled cry at the same time, your hand flying down to swat his away. Your eyes are bright now - but a little too bright, he judges. Reaching up to hold your chin in his hand, he frowns as he watches the pupils of your eyes widen and shrink - and he sighs.

"Let me find some pain meds," he says, and stands back up. Immediate mistake - his middle insides scream at the treatment, and his ankle throbs.

"Bucky - " you start, but he shakes his head as he gnaws on the inside of his mouth. Gotta take care of you first. He fumbles at the counter for...yes, that looks right, and there are bottles of water in the refrigerator. Bucky slumps back to you, passing them over and pointedly ignoring your narrowed look.

You take the pills, and drink half the bottle. Then pass the rest to him, which he downs in three seconds flat.

"You again," you tell him, and grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter to hoist yourself to one foot.

It goes back and forth for nearly an hour. You wrap his bruised and protruding ribs, he gets ice for your nose and lip, you bind up his ankle, he finds applesauce and tins of miniature weiners in a cupboard, and you wipe all the dried blood on his face from his burst eardrum. Your gentle touch is almost distracting from all the pain, and Bucky tries to focus on that, instead. It sort of works. Mostly doesn't.

A buzz on the counter - the burner phone. You're closest to answer it, and listen for a minute with a pinched expression as Bucky curls himself over the back of the chair with a wince.

The safe house stinks like mothballs. The carpet is outdated, and the air conditioner squeaks. But it's safe, or so Bucky assumes.

"Ok, thanks Stark."

Bucky rolls his head back to you - half your combat gear still hanging on, and the other half discarded onto the floor (and not in the fun, exciting way, either) - as you set down the phone.

"They'll be extracting us in four hours," you sigh, rubbing your eyes. "He didn't think this safe house would ever be used, so there's no vehicle available."

Bucky groans, holding out a hand for the tin of weiners - you pass it to him, and he tries very hard to be grateful for something to fill the gnawing hunger in his gut. He gets hungrier when he's wounded. It's just fact.

"Gross," you say.

"I'm hungry," he says plaintively.

"So am I, but not that hungry." A flicker of a smile - that's good - and Bucky grins back as best he can as he slurps up the last weiner. "I never thought I'd say this," you tell him after a moment. "But you should really put a shirt on. You look terrible."

"Wow, babe."

"Just being hon - "

"Shh!" Bucky stops chewing, tilting his head to the side as his eyes widen - glancing around the teeny kitchen, into the sliver of living area he can see - little padding steps, and he stands heavily from the chair, setting down the tin as quietly as he can.

"Oh, come on," you mumble softly behind him. "Not now."

He has that knife, which tightens in his grip as he limps over towards the front door - a single shaft of sunlight is coming through the crooked frame, and before he can do more than yelp in surprise -

A flap at the bottom of the door flips open, and an orange tabby cat streaks inside with a yowl of surprise to see, well, people.

"A kitty!" you coo.

"Get out," Bucky growls at it.

"Oh, be nice," you say in a scolding tone, and before he can scold you back into sitting down, you've hopped on your good foot into the living space, and immediately the cat pads over to you, meowing as if in complaint of Bucky's inhospitality. "I didn't know there was a caretaker here," you croon at the cat, reaching down to stroke its ears. Bucky listens a moment longer, and then slides the knife back into his belt.

"Some caretaker," he snaps. "This place stinks."

"It's nondescript," you point out, lowering yourself gingerly onto the ratty couch. Immediately the cat leaps up beside you, and crawls into your lap.

"It's gross."

"It's better than walking back to New York."

"Fine. But I'm leaving a bad review on - what is it?"

"Yelp," you offer.

"Yeah. That thing." Another glare for the cat, and Bucky turns sit down as well. On your left, because his ear is still ringing painfully.

It stinks. The entire situation stinks. Can't even pounce on you like he wants - no one else is around, and he can't even take a full breath or walk straight. His head lolls against the back of the couch, and Bucky sighs at the ceiling.

"What else did Stark say?" he asks peevishly.

"Not much." You're quiet for a moment, fingers buried in the cat's fur as you shift your weight to stretch your wounded leg out. "Didn't even say thanks for planting that virus on that Hydra server," you sigh.

"Typical Stark."

"You did great back there, by the way," you tell him, and he glances over to see your smile - he stomach does a funny turn unrelated to his broken ribs, and he grins back without thinking.

"Thank you," Bucky says with unnecessary grace. "So did you, babe."

"Ugh, I got stabbed."

"All the best agents get stabbed."

"You didn't."

"Not today," he says fairly. "But I did get an entire desk thrown at my head. That's gotta count for something, right?"

A tired laugh. "Right."

Absently Bucky reaches over, and starts scritching the kitty's ears. It pricks up its head, and regards Bucky curiously. "Don't get any wrong impressions," he tells the cat severely. "I'm just checking for electric bugs or cameras."

"Sure, Bucky," you say.

The cat stands, and crawls over the couch to Bucky, planting its paws on his thigh to reach up and sniff at his chin with interest.

"Ugh," Bucky wrinkles his nose as he pets down the kitty's neck. "Gross."

"I like cats." Your tone is conversational as you continue to scratch its back. "Maybe I'll get one, someday."

The cat licks at one of the bruises on his cheek, and Bucky groans. "Ew."

"You'd better watch it," you tease. "If you keep complaining too much, I'll know for sure that you're secretly hiding your deep and abiding love of all felines."

"Not even funny, babe."

"It's pretty funny." Your head is resting against the back cushions beside his, and Bucky leans over with a smile. "You're always pretending to be gruff and tough," you say softly. "But you're as fluffy as this cute lil kitty."

"Don't tell anyone." Bucky sticks out his lower lip, and you giggle. The cat starts at the sound, and leaps back into your lap, nuzzling into your elbow.

"That you're one of the best men I've ever known?" you ask, quirking brow. "Okay, Bucky. Whatever you say."

A warm, glowy feeling is spreading through his chest - again, not from the rib situation, and he doesn't have the words to reply to you. After another minute, you scoot lay on your back lengthwise, your injured leg propped up on Bucky's lap as the cat snuggles into your side and closes its eyes. Carefully he unties the laces of your combat boots, and tosses them away.

"I'm gonna rest until the team comes," you mumble with a yawn.

"Okay. I'll keep a lookout in case this little menace here turns out to be on Hydra's payroll."

A snort. "Okay, Bucky. Whatever you say."

And a few minutes later - it's just snoring in the little shack of a safe house. The kitty's tail twitches, your lips fall open with deep breaths, and Bucky passes out cold and completely forgets his promise to be on guard.

Oh well.


	36. Breakfast in Prague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-reveal: Bucky can’t sleep, conveniently forgetting that you don’t like to be woken up at the crack of dawn. Reparations must be made - but can the secret be kept from the team?

Bucky swishes the toothpaste foam around in his mouth, and then bends over to spit it into the sink. A slurp of tap water, a swooshing rinse, and another spit. Ah. Much better. Straightening, he grabs a towel to wipe down his damp face, little scritches from the softness on his scruff only a little irritating. He frowns in the mirror - he should shave. Maybe. Otherwise he'll have a full beard in no time. Maybe he will if you want him too. One way or the other.

Speaking of you…

His face relaxing into a smile, Bucky tosses the towel aside and strides out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where your strewn hair and bare toes are visible peeking out from beneath the covers. Bucky pauses, planting his hands on his hips. A blanket lowers slightly until he can see the sparkle of your eyes peeping out.

"Good morning, Agent," he says lightly, noting how your gaze travels down his body - well, considering he's stark-naked, he can't really blame you. He knows your weaknesses.

"Sergeant," you quip back, with a little mischievous smile that has Bucky laughing.

"Formal this morning, aren't we?"

"After last night, I almost feel like I should take vows and retreat to a nunnery," you tease.

"Should I feel bad about that?" he asks, quirking a brow.

"Nope." Your smile is bright, and warms him head to toes. "Come back to bed, Bucky. Jet doesn't leave for three hours. Let's make the most of it."

"You do know Steve and Sam are gonna be up for their morning run any minute now, right babe?"

"They won't bother us - I mean, me. They don't dare." An arched brow. You mean business.

Bucky is chortling as he slides in between the soft sheets, searching out your warm curves. Ah. There you are. Soft and supple and impossible  _not_ to touch. The early morning Prague sun is shining between the curtains which attempt to shade the windows - an east-facing hotel room is never a great idea. Bucky had woken up at four a.m. - and then roused you from your own sleep because he was lonely - and now it's six-o-three and your giggles as he nibbles your ear are the sweetest sound he's ever heard.

"Maybe they'll stop by my room," Bucky murmurs, his tongue tasting the skin of your throat, where he can taste his own, long-dried saliva from earlier over a faint love bite.

"To invite  _you_? Yeah, right. I think they know better than to try that by now."

Bucky growls, his hands finding your waist and giving you a little tickle - you bite back a shriek, trying to squirm away. He doesn't let you.

"Not after that -  _ah!_  - knee injury you faked yesterday to get out of celebrating the success of the mission," you add, and yelp again as he pinches your backside.

"I did that so we could enjoy ourselves in  _private_ ,  _uninterrupted_ ," Bucky says severely. "Shows how grateful  _you_  are - "

"Oh, I'm  _very_  grateful," you snark, and Bucky nearly jolts himself off the bed as you pinch him back. "Wasn't it obvious?"

Laughing, Bucky dips his head to end the pinching and tickling - to kiss you instead, devouring your taste with every inch of his soul, eagerly, desperately - until there's nothing left in his hazy, muddled mind except your familiar little moans of pleasure, your breasts all squished to his chest, your feet on his calves…

"Still wanna be a nun?" he murmurs huskily, searching out a bare breast with his flesh hand.

"Tryin' to scare me away?" you tease, and your hand travels south to find its own hold. Bucky bites his tongue, bucking slightly into your palm.

"Never." The word is a groan, thick and heavy in his throat.

"You're probably on the right track, waking me up at four in the morning…"

Ugh, your  _teasing_. Bucky loves it and hates it - at this moment, he's growling as he pins you to the bed, spreading your legs with his knees as you giggle, your arms around his neck and the expression in your eyes telling him, quite plainly - that this is what you wanted all along -

Your eyes are glittering. Smug.

You win.

And Bucky is sure he's not the loser.

Everything is sultry and sweet, just plain  _really good loving_ , and Bucky loses himself in every sensation, no matter how small - and nothing is very small when it's with you - the smallest touches are explosions, every kiss as spectacular and mind-blowing as the first time he'd ever kissed you, every thrust feels like the onset of a climax intense enough to make him white out -

There's a knock at the door, and Bucky nearly chokes. Your growing moans stall in your throat, eyes widening up at him -

"28?" Natasha's voice. Slipping out and away, Bucky rolls to the side as you tug up the covers to conceal your nakedness. He hits the floor - dead silent and out of sight from the door.

Voice hoarse, you call out, "What is it?"

"We're going into town for breakfast. Steve and Sam and I. Wanna come?" The door isn't tried. Hallelujah.

"Um - I'm still sleeping. Well, I was until you woke me up."

"Oops - sorry."

"It's okay, Nat," you say, and your voice is trembling with suppressed laughter. "Bring me back something, yeah?"

"Sure."

"Have you tried asking Bucky yet? I bet he's hungry."

Bucky freezes where he is, crouched on the faded carpet, buck-naked and sweating and panicking -

"Gonna ask him next. Sweet dreams, 28."

And her footsteps fade away down the hall. Mouth hanging open with an angry glare, Bucky's head peeps over the side of the bed to see you covering a laugh with a hand over your mouth, upright in bed, hair tousled and completely adorable but  _how could you_  -

"Babe!" he hisses in a shocked voice. "They're gonna find out!"

"No, they won't," you say fondly, beckoning him over with a crook of your finger. With a growl he obeys - can't help it. "Just think, with everyone else gone we can have some  _alone_  time - "

"And what's my excuse for not being in my room?" Bucky snarks, but he's already feeling you up, crawling back under the blankets to pick up where things were left off.

"Oh, you're a resourceful super spy," you say fondly, pushing his loose hair from his face. "You'll think of something."

"You're a pain, you know that?"

"You're the one madly in love with me," you tease. "What does that make you?"

"A fool," he deadpans.

"Well, if it's any consolation, you can be  _my_  fool."

" _Possessive_." Bucky takes a nip out of your neck, and you giggle.

"No one gets this - " your hands trace lightly up his arms, eyes all alight and alluring, " - but  _me_. And this." Hands down his back, and his muscles twitch. "And  _this_." His rear end. Bucky grins as you give a squeeze, loving the press of your fingertips into the flesh of his buttocks -

You win. Again.

Bucky still isn't losing, he's sure of it.

The solution to the half-forgotten problem of not being in his hotel room where he's supposed to be turns out to be actually quite simple - after an extra round or two of loving, Bucky grabs his scattered clothes and creeps down the empty hall for his room to put on fresh things. Out the window, to the nearest bakery, and he's munching down a pastry at a stone water fountain in a public square when he catches sight of Steve, Sam, and Natasha in the mass of people.

After that, it's just a matter of pretending to be surprised. Of course his knee is feeling better. He's been out since sunrise taking in the sights, thanks for asking.

Regrettably, he doesn't see you again until he's strapped into a seat on the jet, everyone else aboard and ready to depart. You're the last one on, yawning, with a wrapped pastry from Natasha in your hand.

"Morning," you say blearily, to the group at large.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Sam teases across the aisle. The only empty seat is next to Bucky - not that he'd arranged that. Not at all.

Of course he had. You flash him a casual smile as you sit, your bag stowed above. Belt buckled.

"Mmm, that smells good," Bucky says, sniffing at your pastry. You wrench it away from him, glowering.

"Paws off, Barnes."

"My ma used to close the kitchen at seven a.m. If we didn't get up to eat before then, we had to wait until lunch," Bucky teases. "You're  _spoiled_."

Your eyes sparkle as you take a slow bite of the pastry, gaze never moving from him. "And who's fault is that?" you retort.

"Am I gonna have to sit here and listen to you two bicker all the way back to New York?" Sam asks, frowning with disgust as Bucky sticks his tongue out at you.

"Everyone ready?" Natasha calls from the pilot's seat. "Ready for take off."

"No, you won't," you say to Sam around a mouthful of pastry. "I'm gonna pass out as soon as we're in the air.  _Someone_  woke me up way too early this morning."

Bucky's lips twitch. The comment is clearly meant for him - but your glare is sent to Natasha, who isn't paying attention.

"We need a new team rule not to wake 28 up, like, ever," Sam suggests. "Girl, you get  _tetchy_."

"Some of us had a tough mission," you tell him wisely, licking the tip of a finger. Bucky is staring. You're smirking - you know what you're doing. "Not all of us got to watch the action from a rooftop, Sammy. Some of us had to actually  _participate_."

"Hey, I was air support - "

"Code for 'doing nothing but making unnecessary comments.'"

Bucky snorts. He gets a glare from Sam. So do you. The jet begins to rumble, and his stomach swoops as it shudders and moves. You crinkle up the wrapper in your hands, lobbing it into a trash can by Sam's seat. Another glare. You wink back at Sam. Bucky frowns.

"How long is the flight, Nat?" Sam calls.

"Six hours. Settle in. We're out of city airspace now."

Bucky sighs, and leans his head back against the wall of the jet. It's gonna be a long flight, with you next to him but Sam watching so closely. Why can't Sam be up front with Natasha and Steve, anyway? Just because there aren't any more seats...

You yawn. Bucky stifles a yawn of his own as he crosses his arms in front of his chest - the whirr of the engine is a bit lulling, isn't it? Sam has pulled out his phone to watch something, and Bucky shifts more comfortably in his seat.

A few minutes later he notices that your eyes have closed, a sleepy smile on your face. It's utterly adorable - it makes him wish to be back in that hotel room, with the sunlight and fresh sheets and  _you_ , so pliant and soft and irresistible and loving -

Bucky starts nodding off. Your head droops, and lands on his shoulder.

It had been an early morning, hadn't it?

He doesn't hear Sam's snickering, nor the click of the camera on Sam's phone as he takes a picture - nor Sam's sigh of disappointment as you're almost immediately erased by that SHIELD algorithm that protects your identity.

It's still morning when the jet lands on the launch pad of Avengers Tower - Bucky's still yawning, and so are you, and now Sam is slumped over in his seat with his mouth hanging open. As soon as the jet comes to a stop, you're on your feet, stretching your arms up as you stand up on your tiptoes.

"Five hours and forty-six minutes," Natasha reports, hopping down from the bridge as Bucky unbuckles himself. "And a smooth ride, clearly." Her eyes land on Sam, and she laughs to herself.

"It was a great flight," you tell her, voice rough from sleep. "I slept like a baby. And now I'm going home to continue my nap."

Bucky is slower to leave the jet - Steve is waking up Sam, and with his bag over the shoulder Bucky steps off into the stale city air as you disappear into the Tower with Nat. He grins to himself.

When he gets inside, you've made yourself a seat on a couch in a foyer. Natasha is nowhere to be seen - he quirks a brow as you glance up from your phone with a smile.

"She went to take a shower," you explain, swinging you legs over to stand. "I wanted to say goodbye before I escape."

Bucky frowns, daringly slipping his arm around your waist as you smile up at him. "Stay," he tries.

You laugh. "I don't live here. I can't pretend like I do."

"Move in, then."

"Tempting. But I'm not so sure I want to live in the same building as Clint and Sam. And Tony."

"Fair." Bucky agrees grudgingly to this, planting a quick kiss on your lips as his hand feels out the curve of your hips. "You know," he muses, kissing your nose next. "You fell asleep on me. Think that might be suspicious?"

"Oops." Your smile lights up the room, and heart. "Guess I'll have to fall asleep on Sam next time. Even things out."

"Sam drools."

You quirk a brow. "And you know that, how?"

Bucky shrugs. "Falls asleep during mystery movies. Nearly drowned Steve and me off the couch a coupla weeks ago…"

Your laugh rings out, and the regretful sound of Steve and Sam stomping inside has Bucky pulling away with a sigh. You pick up your bag again, opting for a final swat on Bucky's behind as you turn to leave. That improves his mood somewhat - Bucky leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms as he watches you disappear towards the elevators for the ground level.

Maybe he'll move out, instead.


	37. Any Port in a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-reveal: What better way to celebrate a barely-scraped-by mission than a rendezvous in a closet?

You're laughing as you climb off the Quinjet; since Natasha, Steve, and Sam had been involved with the conversation at different points, it's much less suspicious when you continue to tease Bucky down the gangway, and onto the landing platform of Avengers Tower. Everything is golden and orange in the afternoon light, and everyone is in high spirits.

"I dunno, Buck," you say, re-hoisting your bag on your shoulder as you send him a look which you hope he'll interpret correctly. "I'm sure _I_  could've hit that target, and I'm not even enhanced."

"You're one to talk," Bucky shoots back. "Pushing a door clearly marked 'pull'?"

Your lips purse. "It was in Portuguese," you insist.

"Excuses, excuses," he shakes his head, eyes sparkling.

Sam shoulders his way between you two, oblivious to the glare Bucky sends him. "I think we really lucked out today," he states. "Everyone messed up, and somehow we still got the intel and out without having to kill anyone."

"Yeah, that part was a real shame," Natasha calls back snidely over her shoulder - she's already through the doors, eager for a shower - not that you can blame her. Nat had been the one doused in sewage after she'd picked the wrong plumbing line to burst as a diversion.

It really is a miracle the mission survived.

Sam hurries past you two and after Natasha - likely to tease her up until she slams a door in her face - and you glance back over your shoulder to see Steve keeping a slower pace (he'd vomited on the jet ride there and still isn't feeling great.) Well, gee, if you can shake Steve…

Inside the Tower is less bright, but a cool reprieve from the hot sun. Steve mumbles something and Bucky steps aside to let him pass - Steve clutches his belly and walks faster, and Bucky sends you a cringing face before falling back into step beside you.

"Yikes," he says.

"It's a shame everyone ran off," you say with an exaggerated sigh. "Guess it's just you and me."

There's a moment of silence as Bucky processes this - you sneak a glance over at him, and see the grin broad on his face.

"We'll probably have to find some way to amuse ourselves," you add.

"Oh? What do you have in mind?"

"Something  _naked_."

Bucky bursts into laughter. "You really don't beat around the bush, do you, babe?"

"Nope." And because you're completely serious, you grab his wrist and pull him into a different hallway, and towards a server room which you know is left empty (it's good secret-agent behavior to learn these sorts of things), and you elbow through, sending him back a coy smile as Bucky's eyes darken slightly.

You kick the door shut.

"Well," Bucky says, his voice soft and low, beneath the beeping and flashing lights of the tiny room. "I think I'm beginning to suspect what you have in mind. But  _here_? Really?"

"Any port in a storm," you tease, dropping your bag to the floor.

He blinks, and then starts to laugh. His face is glowing blues and greens in the funny lights, but it doesn't make him less handsome - you waste no time feeling him up beneath his tac vest, ready for it to be on the floor.

"We're going to get in trouble for this," Bucky murmurs, a token protest despite his fingers slipping inside the back pocket of your pants for a fond squeeze. "It's the middle of the workday."

"We'll only get in trouble if we get caught, silly."

"With you leading this? We're  _definitely_ getting caught. Your luck is on the fritz today - remember the mission?"

Your mouth falls open - Bucky starts to chortle at his own joke, and you pinch his side as he wriggles away.

"Ow!"

"You deserved that, mister!"

"I'm only saying - "

But you press your index finger to Bucky's lips - he stops talking, and his eyes glitter down at you as a slow smile creeps up your face. "Don't say it," you whisper. "We don't have time to say anything. Nat's going to be looking for us as soon as she's cleaned up."

Bucky's head dips in a nod.

"Good," you purr, and your hands slide across his chest again. His own hands move lower, and you feel a thrill as he unbuckles your thigh holster.

"Gun safety," he says smugly.

"I do like the prospect of things getting  _dangerous_."

"Babe, you don't even  _know_ \- " And Bucky's head dips, his hot lips fastening on your throat as your head tilts back, and his flesh hand digs into your hip as he draps your gun and holster on a keypad on the wall.

You sigh, and close your eyes, heart already beating out of your chest in anticipation.

* * *

Tony had been having a very nice afternoon. The return of the rest of the team from a successful and not-very-bloody mission; Pepper had brought him lunch, and his evening is free to make it up to her. Sipping his fourth cup of coffee, he strolls out of his office to go find Steve. A mission report filed before 5pm would just make his day that much better. He'll do a little bullying to get it.

He should've known it wasn't to be.

"Sir, an alarm has been triggered in Section 41-P-X9." Friday's voice is quiet down the hall, and Tony sighs.

"Friday, you know I haven't memorized all the section names. Where is it?"

"Server room on floor 41. Alarm on the east wall. Code red."

The alarms aren't blaring through the building, so there must be a reason Friday has sought his permission. Maybe Tony will have something else to talk about with Steve, then.

"Is the threat contained?" he asks briskly.

"Er - yes."

Friday isn't programmed to hesitate. A frown now pinching his brows, Tony makes a sharp right and turns into a briefing room. The lights are off, but the afternoon sun is more than enough. "Throw it up on the screen," he orders, shutting the door behind him.

The screen flickers, and comes to life. Tony had been thinking burglars, Hydra, aliens. Guns, bombs, experimental tech. That sort of thing. But the figures on the screen are familiar, and he squints for a moment before a horrified look freezes his expression.

Friday's voice cuts through Tony's daze. "Sir, shall I sound the alarm?"

But Tony doesn't answer. The mug slips from his nerveless fingers, and smashes to the ground in a glorious explosion of ceramic and hot coffee.


	38. Cheese and Whine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post reveal - Mission status: Complete. Winter Soldier status: Wounded. Falcon status: Fed Up. Agent 28 status: Having way too much fun.

The moment Bucky jolted and fell backwards in a chorus of gunshots, was the moment you stopped running for your life - heart suddenly in your throat as his groan crackles through the com in your ear, you turn on your heel, and run back towards the bad guys. Well, not  _for_  the bad guys - for Bucky, now sprawled on the sand of some crystal blue lake in the middle of nowhere, Croatia, where his blood is now ruining the otherwise pleasant scene.

"That didn't sound good," Sam's voice says through the com next as you fall to your knees beside Bucky, hands shaking as his blue eyes flit up to yours, you reply,

"You think? How about you do something useful and take out whatever alarm system just peppered Bucky like some French cheese."

"On it, 28."

"I'm fine," Bucky rasps, but with sand on half his face and utterly drained of color - you don't believe him for a second. But you don't bother replying, either - unbuckling his combat vest, you rip it away as he groans again, sucking in a breath as you take in the sight of his torso.

This is  _really_  not good - the jet is thirty miles away, and with only Sam for backup…

"How many times did they get me, babe?" Bucky's tongue darts out to lick his lips, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Six."

He sucks in a breath. "Not bad. Steve got eight, once - I was hoping to one-up him."

"Got any anywhere else?"

"Er - I guess my legs hurt but I did trip over that driftwood… Maybe you should take off my pants and see."

He's making jokes. That's good, if it didn't make you want to smack him. Choking back a laugh, it's hard to believe he  _won't_  be ok - so in all likelihood, he probably will.

"You'd like that," you tease back, patting his cheek as he grins widely.

"How does it look, nurse?" Bucky asks, pretending to be woeful. "Will I live?"

"You might have to change your nationality to Swiss after this." Your fingers grow steady as you push his clothes aside, carefully studying the six - no, seven holes. Shrugging off your pack, you unzip and search around for some first aid supplies...which normally aren't needed, but at least you have them.

"You could eat me up, huh?"

"If I had some wine, yeah."

"That sounds like a good time."

Ah, there it is - a nanotech 3D skin grafter. Oh, and antibiotics. And wet wipes.

"Wouldn't it be a better idea," Bucky says suddenly, starting to sit up with a grunt before you push him back down automatically - glaring at him, he winces, and finishes in a hoarse voice, "To get me to a professional?"

"You saying I'm not a professional?" you snark, pulling out a handful of wipes - most of which end up in the sand. Bucky's eyes widen in alarm.

"Babe, I love you and all, but…"

"But what?"

"You're not - um, a medic."

"None of us are. Would you rather bleed out nobly on your way to a hospital?"

"Well, no, but - "

"Sam," you say briskly into the com. "Bucky doesn't want medical attention. There's only one thing left to do: put him in the fridge and let him age."

"What the hell is going on over there?" Sam's voice is fuzzy, and out of breath. "I got the control panel with the alarm sensors - I'll be right over."

Bucky groans again. But he doesn't tease back - that's  _really_  not good. More rummaging through your backpack, and you find what you're looking for: a shot of morphine. You tear off the cap with your teeth, spitting it aside as Bucky visibly blanches.

"I'm gonna get sepsis," he deadpans.

"Better than a cold hard case of  _death_."

"Wow, babe. You really need to work on your bedside manner."

You tug down the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his bare flesh arm - gritting your teeth, you plunge the shot into the muscle. Bucky whimpers.

"I'm gonna die on a beach," he says faintly.

"Don't be dramatic. And save the whining for when I get a bottle of Chardonnay - oh look, Sammy's here."

A shadow above the beach, and then a thud and running footsteps. Sam is maybe a little more calm than you (not as calm as Bucky), but his lips are pressed together in a thin line as he squints at Bucky's bare, bloodied torso.

"Want me to run down to the liquor store for some wine to go with this cheese?" Sam asks, and suddenly it's hard not to laugh like a lunatic. He grins back, shrugs off his wingpack, and starts into the backpack next, looking around for...well, something that'll help. Probably.

"Ok, I get it, there are a lot of holes in me," Bucky says. His words are starting to slur, and taking advantage of that, you start wiping down his chest and stomach, smearing blood everywhere.

"Well, shut that one and 28 and I will fix you right up."

"I don't...I don like that sound of...of tha'."

"It'll be fine," you assure Bucky, peering over at his fluttering eyes. "Sam and I are experts."

"I'm - I'm gon die…"

"Aha!" Sam holds up a device, which you're pretty sure you've been trained on, but don't recall. "This'll get the bullets out," he adds smugly, and Bucky tries to flinch away, but with the morphine in the system he only just twitches.

"Hold still," you say to Bucky, patting his cheek. His eyes are usually bright as they flicker to your face. His mouths opens, then closes - he smacks his lips a few times, and finally - he starts mumbling in...in French?

 _"'Bouge pas, Bucky_ ', comme si t'étais ma mère ou j'sais pas quoi. Huh! Comme si je savais pas ne pas bouger; c'est pas la mer à boire. Je suis pas  _Steve_!"

"Wow," Sam says after a startled moment - he's hovering the device over the first bullet hole. "Whatever you gave him - that stuff is hardcore."

"It's just morphine!"

The first bullet zips out of Bucky, and into Sam's device as Bucky's head lolls. Eyes on you, and a loopy smile stretches across his face.

"Du bist ja hübsch, weißt du das?"

"Okay, Bucky." Amused, you pull out more wipes to keep cleaning.

"I'm starting to get worried," Sam comments. He get two more bullets out - and empties them into the sand. For mid-morning, it's getting pretty hot - Sam's forehead is glistening, your skin feels flushes beneath your combat gear, but Bucky is still pale.

"If you aren't seeing anyone else, maybe we could go out sometime." Bucky's metal hand absently pats your knee. His teeth gleam in a smile. Finally. English.

"I don't know, Bucky," you say, pushing his metal hand away so you can clean up his side. "My boyfriend might not like that."

Bucky groans. "All the pretty ones are already taken…"

Sam snorts, and two more bullets fall in the sand. "I'm never going to let him forget this," he says gleefully.

"Good," you grin. "Me neither."

"Se o teu namorado não for bondoso para ti, vou encará-lo," Bucky declares a little weakly, squeezing his eyes closed as he faces the sky. His voice is hoarse. "Vou ser o homem que tu mereces. Tu és tão bonita. Mereces o melhor."

"What language is that?" Sam asks, face wrinkling.

"Beats me. I barely passed high school Spanish."

All the bullets are out. Bucky is singing in another language you don't recognize, but at least he's not moving. Bent over his middle, you squeeze antibiotic into each gash, and Sam starts to fill them with the nanotech skin grafter. Your fingers are covered in blood and sand, which makes you wonder if Bucky really  _will_  get some infection - extra antibiotic, and you wipe your hands on your combat pants.

" _Den lille Ole med paraplyen,_

 _ham kender alle småfolk i byen.._."

"Almost out," Sam says, shaking the grafter. The final bullet hole is barely covered, and you sit back on your haunches with a deep breath, lips twitching at Bucky's singing.

_"Hver lille pige, hver lille dreng,_

_han lægger sødt i sin lille seng…"_

"If I didn't use up my phone battery to hack into that outpost, I'd be filming this right now," you sigh.

"It's perfect blackmail," Sam agrees, grinning widely as Bucky lifts a metal finger to start conducting along with his own mumbled (and pitchy) singing.

" _Han vil fortælle om stjerner klare,_

_og om den dejlige engleskare,_

_og om den yndige lille fe,_

_som alle børn vil så gerne se…"_

"Did Stark's jet-call controls ever get past the beta stage of testing?"

"Not sure. Let me program Redwing really quick…" Sam hops to his feet, busy with his tech as you sigh again. A smile, and you bend over Bucky, stroking along his face as he gives a loopy grin.

"Hey there," you say softly. "How are you holding up?"

"The sky," Bucky declares, attempting to lift a hand towards the deep blue expanse.

"Sammy and I got you fixed up," you tell him, even though there's probably not much point. "And we'll have an actual professional look at you when we get back to New York. They'll probably give us honorary medical degrees for the great job we did."

"Нью-Йорк," he slurs a little, eyes unfocusing. "Нью-Йорк. задача 83, украсть планы для новой технологии, изобретенной - "

"Bucky!" A sharp pat on his cheek, and he jerks away. But he stops the Russian spiel, and the haziness in his expression is less terrifying.

"Jet's comin'," Sam calls. "Four minutes out."

"Good," you mumble. "Come on, Bucky. Let's get you home."

* * *

The sky beyond the massive windows is dark; even for a weeknight in Manhattan. But the city has very little interest for you - instead, you grimace at the tablet in your hands, and then grin, and type in,

_Subject showed very little pain following administration of 20mL of medical grade morphine. Stayed awake and somewhat lucid - showed some signs of understanding surroundings, but babbled in foreign languages. Attempted flirtation with mission partner._

The beeping of the hospital machines are not your favorite background noise to filing reports - one for Stark, and one requested by the medical research team about how Bucky and his super-body reacted to the treatment - but it's worth staying by him.

Your eyes flick up (again) to see Bucky's peaceful face, turned slightly away. His color is back, and the doctors had informed you it's probably just a matter of time before he's back on his feet. No sepsis, no blood poisoning, no lead poisoning - even if he  _has_ been out cold for over five hours now. He should be awake any minute.

Any time now.

Anytime...

The hospital chair isn't comfortable, either. With your feet propped up on the bed by Bucky's side, you sigh, and put in more notes about Bucky's condition on the jet ride over. Not great, not terrible - but definitely hilarious.

Sam really is never going to let Bucky live it down. And neither will you.

You smile, and keep typing the report.

Bucky starts to stir. It's a twitch at first, and then a quickening of the beeps on the heart monitor. Then he squirms, and groans, and you put the tablet away with some relief.

"Hey," you say softly, scooting close to squeeze his flesh hand. "You feeling okay?"

"Babe." His voice is groggy and weak, and deeper than usual. His head lolls, and finally a sliver of blue peeks out at you as he blinks. "Where am I?"

"At the Tower. We got back from the mission just fine, thanks for asking."

Bucky groans again, scrunching his face very cutely - and you smile as you pat his hand. "What happened?" he mumbled.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

A pause, and he licks his lips. "Completing the mission," he decides.

It's difficult to hold back laughter, but one tiny giggle escapes. "You missed a lot," you tell him, voice shaking despite yourself. "Um, you got shot while we were escaping. Several times. Sammy and I did, um, surgery on you, stabilized your condition, and brought you back to New York."

"I really must have been out of it," Bucky muses, lifting his metal hand to rub his face. "To let you and Sam Wilson touch me in a medicinal manner."

"We did  _great_. All the doctors said so. And you sang to us a lot, too. It was beautiful. I think Sam got a video…"

"Oh,  _no_."

"Oh,  _yes_!"

Poor Bucky - well, mostly. It's still amusing, but you squeeze his hand in condolence.

"It was cute when we got back," you tell him. "You started speaking Cantonese with one of the doctors - he said you wanted to know how his grandma made hot and sour soup."

"Huh?"

"He - he wrote down the recipe and everything." And you don't bother stopping it anymore - you laugh. Wheezing, tearing up - and Bucky gives you a plaintive glare. Worth it.

"Can I go now?" he asks irritably, squirming again in the bed as he glares around at the hospital equipment next.

"Sure," you chirp. "You were only kept down here because the med research team wanted to study how you reacted to the treatment. I had to write a report and everything - so you owe me one."

"How do I owe you one?" Bucky grumbles. "It's not my fault."

"Well, you got shot, so, kind of."

He starts to fumble with the IV patch on his flesh arm (new tech; needleless and much less painful to remove) - but you push his metal hand away, and peel it off yourself.

"Are you sure you're up to going upstairs? How do you feel?" you ask, finding the button to sit the bed up. Bucky nearly jolts, eyes widening as he clenches the railing as he's lifted up.

"I feel like Tony stretched me out and used me as a landing pad for his experimental jets," he deadpans as he swings his feet over the side of the bed. The hospital gown isn't doing him any favors, but he still looks better than you would, under similar circumstances.

"Oh, come on," you say lightly. "It was just a few measly bullet wounds. You've had worse."

"Have I?" Bucky's brows crease as his expression narrows at you, and you chuckle.

"Fine, so it's the worst you've had," you say fairly. "But you seem to be doing alright."

"There's a breeze around my backside." He slumps over himself on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, well, I picked out these swell duds for you," you tell him with a wink. "As a fan of your backside, I thought, why not show it off?"

Bucky pauses, horror lining his face. Then, "Who else saw my butt, babe?"

"Um - the doctors. Don't worry, they see butts all the time. I'm sure it's nothing special to them. But to  _me_?" You grin as you pat his unshaven jaw. "My favorite butt of all."

"So I must not have been in mortal danger, if you're joking around like this," Bucky grumbles.

"Nah. Takes more than a few bullets to get rid of  _you_."

" _Wow_ , babe."

"Let's get you upstairs."

He gnaws on his lips as he slides off the side of the bed - arm firmly around your shoulders, and you place a hand on his chest to keep him steady. Your other hand? Well, that bare backside needs a little love, too.

"Babe!" Bucky growls in warning.

"You're not numb anywhere, are you? Numbness is bad," you say innocently.

"You don't care if I'm numb. You just wanna touch my butt."

"Never said I didn't."

"And why isn't  _your_ butt on display, then, huh?"

"Because I'm not an invalid," you say, as if it's obvious. "I'd get in trouble for public indecency - can't have that going on my crystal clean record."

"I can't wait to get into real clothes," he sighs.

"Mmm. We'll see."

Bucky's steps grow stronger, and more secure as you head for the door. By the time you reach the elevator, he's only squeezing your hand - albeit tightly - and he's taking deep breaths. Oh, and is that a smile? You grin, and he smiles back as he runs his fingers through his dirty hair.

"You need a shower," you tell him as the elevator whirs to life. "I'll help."

"That sounds promising."

"It is."

Even though he braces himself against the wall, he's standing tall. He's a wonderful sight, and after a moment his nose wrinkles in thought.

"Why does cheese sound good right now?" Bucky asks, as the door opens with a  _ding!_ on the residential level.

"Oh," you say, snickering. "No reason, I'm sure."


	39. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-marriage: An earlier wake-up call on the weekend than Bucky would like - but who’s he to complain, with all his favorite girls to spend the day with?

Saturday mornings are supposed to be lazy. Slow, bleary, luxurious. Meant to be taken one yawn at a time; no rush or other responsibilities - no, those are for the other days of the week.  _Not_ supposed to be heralded by the pitter-patter of small feet at six a.m., and a rattling of the doorknob with a drawn-out squeak as the door is opened.

Bucky doesn't open his eyes. He knows who it is - Rebecca is a frightfully early riser, just like her uncle Steve. A scant second later, the tiny footsteps bumble over, stopping at the foot of the bed as the mattress dips - a small body heaves itself up, crawls up to the top, and slides in between the covers.

 _Just ignore it_ , you'd told him, months ago.  _If we look asleep, they'll get bored and fall back asleep, too._

So Bucky takes your advice. Even if he  _is_  feeling stirrings of annoyance that there's now a person between you and him.

It starts as some big-little girl breaths, sighing at first and them humming an unrecognizable string of notes. Then tiny toes, experimentally poking Bucky's knee beneath the covers, to which he does  _not_ respond - and finally more sighing and squirming and flopping around, and he knows sleeping in is a pipe dream.

She nuzzles closer to him - hairs tickle his face, sun-kissed and smelling of outside; reminiscent of the hours the girls played in the yard yesterday evening, daydreaming about fireflies while Bucky had dozed off on the porch, and you'd chatted with your mother on the phone inside. Beck's weight settles heavily in on the crook of Bucky's elbow, her soft skin rubbing against the metal that she never seems to notice, and her warm breath is almost ticklish. Her arm flops onto his flesh shoulder facing up, giving a sort of pseudo half-hug, and her tiny hand gives several pats - mimicking the way you or Bucky comfort her after a scraped knee or bad fall or for just a regular old hug.

Groggy, broken, sweet and sleepy - Rebecca makes an attempt at whispering but it seems like a shout in the quiet of the bedroom. "I love you, Daddy."

Bucky's heart swells, and a bleary smile lifts his lips before he remembers he's trying to look asleep.

"What about me?" Your slightly-grumpy reply; voice just as crumbled as Bucky can't help snorting. Facade over, he supposes.

"Sorry, Mom," Bucky says back, wrapping Rebecca around the back with his flesh arm to pull her tighter to his chest as she giggles. "She loves  _me_."

"I love Mommy, too," Becks says matter-of-fact. "I love Winnie and Teddy and Grammy and Papa and Uncle Stevie and Aunty Sharon and Sammy and Tasha and - " Her spiel goes on as Bucky forces his heavy eyes open - on the opposite pillow, your head is turned to him, your eyes sparkling and your smile beaming, and he stares sappily back until Rebecca's list finally makes it to the volunteer librarian at the local library, and ends with the mailman and the puppy she had seen at the grocery store a few days earlier.

Beck's arm tightens around the back of Bucky's neck, and her sloppy lips press an enthusiastic kiss to the side of his mouth.

"What a cute alarm clock," Bucky mumbles, giving her another squeeze.

"Where's my alarm clock?" you tease.

"Still sleeping," he retorts.

"Lame."

Far below Rebecca's short legs, your toes have found Bucky's - he grins over her head, and you wink.

"Daddy, you need to shave."

"I do?"

"Yeah." With solemn wisdom, Beck nods her head. "You're scratchy. And I'm scratchy too."

You snort, and Bucky full-on laughs - there have been a fair share of mornings with Beck and Winnie sitting on the bathroom sink, faces lathered in shaving cream as they giggled madly.

"Not Mom?" he jokes. This throws Beck for a loop - she twists away from him to stroke her small hand on your cheek, and then snuggles back into Bucky.

"No," she declares. "Mommy not scratchy."

"Oh, phew!" you laugh.

"Not fair, Mom." Bucky pretends to be severe, and reaches over to pinch your arm. You pinch back, and he yelps and draws his arm away with a glare.

"Keka?" Another squeak of the door, and Bucky lifts his head to smile at Winnie - a stuffed bunny's paw clenched in her little fist. She gasps and squeals, rushing the already-crowded bed as she bounces into to snuggle you.

"Oh, no," you groan, but pepper some good-morning kisses all over Winnie's face, anyway, as Winnie giggles and squirms. "Now we really have to get up."

"No, you don't, Mom," Bucky says. With a conspiring grin, he lowers his head to Rebecca's ear - she eager tilts her head, and he whispers, "Should we make breakfast for Mom?"

" _Yeah!_ " The resounding shriek pierces his head - but he laughs anyway, as Becks and Freddie hop back up to jump out of bed. Bucky takes advantage of the newly-freed space between him and you, and scoots over to wrap you up in your own morning hug.

"Morning," he drawls, nuzzling his nose against your cheek as the pitter-patter of two pairs of bare feet take off down the hall. Scrunching your face but smiling anyway, you peer up at him as your fingernails drag down the front of his chest, to his abs. Oh -  _that_  sort of morning.

"Are you going to put on a shirt first, at least?" you tease.

"Aw, don't you like me all buck-naked?" Bucky teases right back, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose.

"Sure, but not  _cooking_. That's unsanitary. But if you stay  _here_  and  **just hold me**  a little longer..."

 _"Daddy!_ " can be heard all the way from the kitchen, along some noises that sound suspicious and messy. That's unfortunate. With a groan he untangles himself from you and the sheets, sending back a glare as you pinch his bum all innocent - your eyes stay on his front as he finds a t-shirt to pull on over his head, and Bucky throws his hips out as he leaves the bedroom, and your laughter echoes.

The kitchen faces east, and so it's awash with bright yellow light; the floor sun-warmed and dust floating in the air. Beck and Winnie jump around, wild and eager until Bucky helps them focus on a task: empty the dishwasher and put away everything they can reach.

It keeps them occupied for ten minutes, and the practice of working under pressure has Bucky already dolloping pancake batter in a skillet by the time they're done. He has experience working with a toddler hanging on each of his legs, too, which is good - because his working conditions are inhumane, really. Cruel. Especially when they laugh maniacally as he pretends to struggle to move to the sink and back to the counter, grunting and groaning like they weigh a ton.

When the tray is finally lowered down to be carried by the twins together (Bucky's blood pressure is through the roof), he follows their snail's pace from behind, eyes trained on the rattling dishes and swooshing juice, ready to catch it at a moments' notice.

But Freddie and Becks have  _pretty_  good balance, for a pair of three-year olds.

You're laying on your stomach in the middle of the bed, snoring loudly and very fake, but the girls start giggling madly anyway. Carefully they lay the tray at the foot of the bed, and then squeal as you lift your head with a playful roar, and the girls just laugh harder and harder.

"Go eat in the kitchen," Bucky tells them sternly, shooing them out - he'd made sure to fill their plates already. They'll be occupied - for maybe five minutes before hollering for more. Five minutes is plenty of time. "Up," he says to you next, pulling back the covers - you glare up at him, but sidle up to sit against the headboard, crossing your fingers in your lap primly. "Sheesh, these jammies aren't very modest, are they?" Bucky teases, pulling on the strap of your shirt. "You're showing yourself off."

"And you  _like_ it," you retort with a smirk.

"I do. Now eat up."

But your eyes spark with challenge, making him grin. " _You_  eat."

"I wanna, but the girls will walk in as soon as they're done. Can't have them see their daddy desecrating Mom."

Your hand catches the waistband of his shorts - Bucky grins, leaning close for a consolatory kiss. The promise in your sparkling eyes warms him head to toes. But he slides the tray over to your lap, and goes to supervise the little ones.

 _This_ is the way Saturday mornings are supposed to be. Relaxed, lazy, full of giggles and syrupy lips and sloppy kisses and spilled milk and banana peels on the table and dishes piling up, punctuated with occasional reminders not to touch anyone's hair with sticky fingers. And when you bring your half-eaten breakfast into the kitchen to finish, (the bed is lonely, or so you say), Bucky sneaks some strawberries from your plate, you pinch his behind, and Rebecca gasps in indignation.

"Mommy! No pinch!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling…" But the wicked glare you send Bucky isn't sorry at all.

Breakfast finishes a  _long_  time later; every pancake fresh off the skillet went onto the girls' plates, (boy, can they eat), and by the time Bucky is sitting his own stack, everyone else is full. Figures. Do all the work, eat alone.

But he doesn't mind. It's your turn to wrangle the girls into clearing their dishes, washing their faces, and send them off to get dressed. And from the table, Bucky has a prime view of your backside as you start washing the dishes.

 _Prime_ view.

"Can I send you and the girls to the hardware store today?" you ask without turning around.

"Uh huh. What do you need?"

"I have a list."

"Okay. You don't wanna come with?"

"I have something to do here."

"Which you'd rather didn't involve toddlers underfoot?"

You do turn around at that, casting Bucky a bright, beaming smile that makes his heart skip a beat. "I've given too much away already," you tease.

"A surprise, huh?"

"I know you love surprises."

"Only if they involve you n- " A rushing of little feet, and Bucky snaps his mouth shut as his face turns hot, and Winnie throws herself into his lap with her clothes in her fists. He pretends to shriek. "Ahh! Naked girl!"

She giggles and giggles and giggles - and Bucky laughs and you laugh and Rebecca comes streaking in naked, too, clearly just as pleased with herself as Freddie is.

"Not the naked girl I was hoping for," Bucky says to you over their heads, as Winnie plants her hands on his shoulders so she can step into the shorts he's holding for her.

"Well, maybe you'll have to keep hoping, then."

Not for too long, though. Because fifteen minutes later the girls are dressed and occupied with building blocks and trains, and you're deliciously naked in his arms behind the locked door of the bathroom, and it's a tiny but utterly perfect heaven on earth.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the local hardware store - massive and sprawling and filled with people busy with projects, Bucky squints at the handwritten note you'd sent with him. A few screwdrivers and wrenches in odd sizes, tin cutters, a breaker bar, rust dissolvant, rags - and an air compressor. He's wondering if he should've asked what your plan is before running off with the girls.

"Vroom, vroom!" Becks yanks the steering wheel around in the plastic car, and Winnie just sways as she sings. Bucky grunts and heaves the shopping cart around, trying his darndest not to run into any display cases. With a device so creaky and old? It's going to take all of his super skill to stay in the aisles.

"You girls need to learn how to drive," he says, as a wheel wobbles and he nearly takes out a stack of windshield wiper fluid. They just cackle madly back at him, and Rebecca pretends to drive even more wildly.

At the checkout, Beck squeezes out of the car contraption, and walks up to Bucky to tug on the end of his jacket. "Daddy," she stage-whispers. "I need to go potty."

"Oh!" Winnie scrambles out of her seat next. "Me too!"

What would usually be a twenty-minute trip to the store ends up being over an hour and a half. Pretty typical, when it's Bucky and his girls - and when they have the brilliant notion on the ride home to stop for their tacos, ("we were good at the store, Dad!"), he just glances back in the rearview mirror to see their eager, lit-up faces, and laughs.

"Of course we can get tacos," he promises. "As long as we bring some home for Mom."

Their little cheers fill the car. Worth it.

It's early afternoon when Bucky pulls into the long, winding driveway to the house - he calls it a house, but you call it a cottage; a half-mile from the road and flanked by forest on all sides. He won't say it, but the acre of pristine green lawn is his favorite - he loves the tediousness of mowing, and watching the girls play barefoot in the grass afterwards.

He's not surprised to see you kneeling amongst the flowers and bushes that circle the house. Hat atop your head, dirty gloves buried in the ground as you glance up with a smile at their arrival. After letting the girls loose from their carseats, they hop out and immediately start running and shrieking in the yard, skillfully finding a ball they'd forgot to put away last night. Maybe on purpose.

"Hey," Bucky calls over to you, grabbing the bags from the car. "Have a good time without us?"

"I amused myself," you admit, a little cryptically.

"I brought you tacos."

"Tacos, huh? Was that your idea, or theirs?" With that teasing you stand, smiling brighter than the sun as he drops the tools on the stairs to the front of the house, and takes two big ol' strides to your side. Bending low for an enthusiastic but sloppy kiss, your hat falls to the ground from the force of his assault, but your arms wind around his neck and he can feel a clump of dirt fall from your glove and onto his back.

"Babe?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you need an air compressor for?"

With a laugh you pull away, patting his cheek with one dirty hand. "You're going to need it," you say lightly. The gloves fall to the ground by your gardening tools, and you grab his hand to start hauling him behind the house.

"Why?" Bucky asks again, a little plaintively.

But you don't respond - a wicked grin over your shoulder, and you take him all the way to the shed. The doors are partially closed, but you slide them open, and stand back.

"Happy Saturday," you say smugly. "Since it's not your birthday."

"Is that?" Blinking, Bucky takes a tentative step forward into the dusty shed - dustier still is the automobile parked in the center. Rusty and discolored and missing a few wheels - but it's - it's -

"A 1921 Amilcar CC," you say, when he doesn't. Because he's too busy gushing.

"Babe - this is the car my grandparents owned! They would - they would take us to Nantucket every summer until...until Pops died, but…" Bucky runs his hands over the cool exterior, drinking in a sight absent from his mind's eye for so long that he's struggling to really see it. But no, it all comes rushing back as he touches door handles, the window frames, the hood… he glances up from peering into a corroded side mirror.

"I know, Bucky." Arms crossed, you lean against the shed door, grinning as if the present had been for you, not him. "Steve told me."

"Steve?"

"Steve."

"But - but why?"

"Because I asked him, silly."

Bucky barely refrains from rolling his eyes at your joke. "But why - why did you buy this?"

Your eyes are sparkling the best kind of mischief - but desperate for a straight answer, he strides back to you, grasping you around the waist as you melt into his arms. Lip caught between your teeth, you just gaze up at him. "Do I need a reason to spoil you?" you ask, pretty reasonably.

"No, but - "

"Bucky," you interrupt, planting your palms on his chest. "Look. I know that sometimes you get a little restless here if you're too long between missions. This is just...this is something for you to do, all on your own. No girls allowed, if you want. Have Steve or Sam over to help. Or Tony, if you're really desperate. Just...I want you doing something that's special to  _you_."

"You're special to me, and I've been doing you  _just_  fine."

You burst into trilling laughter. "That's not what I meant," you say fondly, and he chortles.

"So you had this delivered this morning while I was gone?" Bucky asks, quirking a brow as he tugs you closer - hips pressed into hips, thighs to thighs - and still not close enough.

"I did."

"And...so you sent me out with our daughters to buy...my own gifts to go along with it."

Your eyes crinkle at the corner with your smile. "Well,  _duh_."

" _Wow_ , babe."

"A 'thank you, babe' will suffice."

"Thank you, babe." With exaggerated annoyance and a roll of his eyes, Bucky bends low to kiss your lips - a little outdoorsy, but infinitely sweet. Home. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. "Aw, man. You bought me a car to fix up and I only brought you  _tacos_."

Your laugh fills the shed, and the running footsteps approaching cut off any further teasing. The girls ooh and ahh over the new project, wiping their hands through all the dust as Bucky keeps an arm wound around your waist - your head rests fondly on his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Let's drive, Daddy!" Freddie shouts.

"I wanna drive!" from Becks.

"I have to fix it first," Bucky tries to explain - whether they're listening or not is debatable. "If I can, we will definitely go for family drives through the country."

"Alright, city boy." You pinch his side, and he squirms.

"MOMMY! I FOUND! A KITTY!"

"You left one of your toys out here?" you ask, drawing away from Bucky and towards Rebecca's shriek.

"No! A real kitty!"

"A real - " Startled, you glance back at Bucky, but he just shrugs. If he concentrates, he can hear the faint rapid patter of an animal's heartbeat - and he'd just been thinking it was a squirrel outside. From around the car comes Beck, a fluffy grey thing in her arms as Winnie starts jumping up and down with excitement, hands over her mouth.

"Aw!" You crouch beside Beck, clearly wanting the animal out of her arms - but she's not letting go of it, no way, no how. A head peeks up, glances around, and yowls indignantly.

"We can take it to a shelter," Bucky says. Wrong move - two glares from the little ones, and even you're a tag reproachful, as the cat starts licking the palm of your hand. You coo, scratching its dirty head. Winnie pets the tail. Rebecca kisses its nose. "Oh, c'mon," Bucky mutters. "One measly cat and suddenly I'm not the favorite anymore."

"Don't listen to the mean old man," you croon to the kitty. "You're precious! You can stay with us."

"Can I name it, Mommy?" Winnie pleads.

"I found it, I name it," Beck shoots back.

"We'll decide together," you promise. "Let's take him inside a find a can of tuna, huh girls?"

Side by side, Freddie and Beck start walking out of the shed - Bucky steps aside, because they aren't looking where they're going, and they make a crooked path to the house. He sighs.

"They don't love me anymore," he says mournfully.

"Don't be absurd," you admonish, winding your arm through his. A gentle tug, and he's being taken back to the house, too. "You can share the the title of 'favorite.'"

"No, I can't."

"Then you'll just have to get used to it."

Bucky has to admit, watching the girls pet the cat as it nibbles away at canned meat on the front porch is a pretty cute sight. You gorging on tacos, not so much - but just as endearing.

"I'll take it to the vet on Monday," you decide.

"Leave it there," Bucky deadpans.

"Bite me."

"Let's wait until the girls are asleep tonight, yeah?" He sends you a wicked wink, but you just grin in return, licking some spilled guacamole from your finger.

The afternoon is spend adoring the cat - mostly outside, the girls getting grass stains on their clothes as you return to weeding the flower beds. Bucky helps you for a while, scolds the cat for peeing on the rose bushes, and then scolds it again for poking its claws into his t-shirt while he was  _trying_  to pet it.

It's a monster.

When the sun starts to go down, it's a stampede to the bath. Bucky washes his hands and face as the girls mostly just splash each other in the bathtub, and a moment of generosity has him digging around the linen cupboard for the most threadbare towel. He takes it to the porch, and bundles it up for the indignant cat left on the front step.

"As soon as we know you're clean and free of critters, you can come inside," Bucky tells it, as it licks its chops. He starts to go inside, closing the door behind him - but peers back. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Dinner, clean up, books, and bed. The early morning brings heavy drowsiness fast - within ten minutes of lights out, the girls have stopped chattering, and Bucky can hear their slow, even breaths from where you're snuggled up to him on the couch.

"We should do something," you mumble into his chest - his arm around your shoulders tightens.

"We're too tired," Bucky jokes.

"Then we should go to bed."

"You first."

A pause. You don't move, and it's a while before Bucky can drag his tired body, and yours, to bed.

Whatever the teasing had been; the taunts and quips and seductive winks - it's only sleep on his mind tonight. Faded moonlight cascades down the walls, your soft warmth in his arms so perfect in every way. Your hands travel up his arms, holding him close, and he touches all his favorite parts of you. Gentle, feathery kisses on noses and cheeks and lips - not too eager, but simple, content reminders of _"I'm here,"_   _"I love you,"_  and  _"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."_

Oh, and tomorrow is Sunday.

Even better.


	40. Afterglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-reveal: Everyone else is out of the Tower on a mission. Where does that leave you and Bucky?

An early morning rainstorm had left New York City blanketed in a thick fog, streets to sky, so that not even the dark outlines of the skyscrapers can be seen. There were more honks and shouts in the street than usual; more swerves and splashes and  _"Hey, get out of the way!"_ 's. But as dreary as it all is, you haven't noticed a mite of the weather since stepping into Avengers Tower, and, now sprawled under the sheets of Bucky's, the grey vista outside his windows matters even less.

"You have sex hair," you say languidly, running your fingers lazily through his mussed hair, his chin propped up on your stomach as he gazes up at you. Bucky rolls his eyes fondly, his straying hands give your waist a pinch.

"So do you," he retorts.

"If the team were here, they would  _definitely_  know what we'd been up to. Oh, look - hickies." And you grin as you trace the love bites on Bucky's neck and shoulder. And jaw. Oops - you'd gotten carried away.

"Oh, please," Bucky chortles, his voice low and husky. "They don't notice anything."

It's a fair point. Truth be told, you'd been a little disappointed not to be invited on the mission to Fiji - but with the condolence that Bucky was staying behind, too, things had worked out better than expected.

The residential floors all to yourselves? A miracle. No need to stay quiet, no need to quickly smooth over any sex hair. And Bucky's buck-naked greeting at the elevator when you'd arrived, which had resulted in lots of laughing and tussling and chasing around as your clothes came off in the kitchen, common area, etc - makes you wish the team was gone  _way_ more often.

Bucky's grin as is as wide as his face as he lifts his chin, shifting it from side to side as he tenderly presses his fingers to his jaw. "My tongue has a cramp," he jokes.

You snort in return, your fingers threading a little more tightly in his hair as he gives a grunt. "So exercise it more," you tease, as if it's the most obvious solution in the world.

"You're just saying that because it benefits  _you_."

"And you. Won't cramp up so much. My jaw is  _very_ strong by now, you know."

He's laughing as his hands move to your belly, your waist. His fingers tickle up and down on your ribs, brows quirking as your nipples respond in tingles to the gentle touch - and then he grins.

"Ticklish, babe?" Bucky asks lightly.

"I'm naked, and you're touching me," you point out. "What do you expect?"

A low chuckle vibrates in his chest, and through your middle. Your thumb traces around his ear, then tucks some stray hair behind it so that you can see his face better. Without realizing, a dopey smile has grown on your face - don't care, anyway - and Bucky's eyes flicker across your features, his expression somehow both soft and hard at once.

"I love you," he says suddenly, and as you start to laugh for the suddenness of it, he crawls up towards you, his fingers trailing along your jaw as his hair left hanging tickles your nose. "I love your smile, I love your laugh, I love your lips - " And Bucky kisses them, just to prove it - "I love your nose - I love your eyes - I love your cheeks - I love your ears - " Each receiving a tender kiss as his voice grows low. "I love it when you love me." And that husky declaration is coupled with a gentle nibble to your throat, which vibrates with a sigh as your eyes flutter shut. "I love your every absurdity. I love your obsession with my butt. I love it when you surprise me. I love that we can be silly - " More kisses and nibbles down your collarbone, causing the sleepy heat between your legs to wake up again; your toes brush up against Bucky's bare calf, hopefully passing on the hint as your hands brush up his shoulders, and to the back of his neck.

He's grinning as he lifts his head again, eyes gazing into yours - extra bright blue with the reflection of the fog outside.

"You love it when I use my mouth on you?" you purr, as he blinks in surprise. A snort, and then a laugh.

"Wow. Thanks for ruining the moment, babe."

"You love it when I come on your face?"

"That, too."

"And when I let you - "

"I think that's enough," Bucky interrupts firmly, clasping his flesh hand over your mouth. Your tongue darts out, licking his fingers, and he screws up his face something funny before wiping his hand on the sheets. But you're not done.

"Or when I - "

" _Babe_!" Full-body, belly laughs now, and he nudges himself between your legs to get you to be quiet. It works, as his tongue slips between your lips to eat up whatever crude comment was going to come out next.

You win.

The perks of loving a supersoldier - no recovery time necessary. Bucky was already ready, anyway, and after your hands trace down the slope of his shoulders, his back, and to his behind - a little squeeze of the cheeks has him bucking forward.

He gets the hint.

"I love you. I love you. Babe, I love you so much." The hot whisper in your ear has you moaning in time to his thrusts. In contrast, the little peppering kisses behind your ear, on your neck are barely there, barely skimming skin - but that just makes the tingles and waves of heated goosebumps worse, and your back arches so that your breasts are pressed against the hard wall of Bucky's chest.

His flesh fingers are pressed into your hip; his lips fastened on your shoulder now as his breaths grow ragged - yours too, if you're being honest - and fingernails rake down his back and everything explodes in a cacophony of light and color and  _heat_  and rushing and pounding and aching and moaning -

The rain has started again outside, you realize dimly, as Bucky's nose trails back up to find yours, and his lips draw out a passionate kiss as your arms wind around his neck. There are little pitters and patters on the glass of the window, but it only sinks in the tenderness of the moment more deeply into your bones.

"I love you too." It's a little breathless, but you're smiling, and he gives a little chortle.

"Had to put in the work to wring that outta you, didn't I, babe?" Bucky teases lightly, reaching up to flick the tip of your nose. Which you wrinkle, as you giggle.

"I guess so."

"Do I get an essay on what you love about me back?" His brow quirks, and you laugh. Even keeping him wrapped between your legs, it just doesn't feel close enough.

"You don't need an essay," you say fondly. "I'll tell you what I love about you with my eyes."

"Oh!" Bucky sounds intrigued, a grin flickering on his extra-pink lips. You nod in return, gnawing slightly on your bottom lip as you suppress a coy smile. Then, making sure he's watching, you squirm away just an inch, and make a show of looking down to where the slopes of his very attractive derriere are visible above the sheets. It only takes a split-second - and he gasps in the indignity.

"Oh my gosh, babe!" No more intrigue - aggravation, through and through. "Are you serious?"

You can't help laughing as you settle back in between his arms, content to stay there forever. " _Completely_."

He groans, resting his forehead against yours as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have asked."

"You said you loved my absurdities," you point out. " _And_  that I love your butt. I don't know what answer you were expecting, frankly."

Bucky starts to laugh, reluctantly at first, but after you pinch his behind and he yelps - his hands stray down to your waist to keep you in place as he collapses on his back, dragging you along. Slightly dizzy from the sudden movement, you sit tall on your perch, and his laughter stalls as his hands trace up to caress your breasts, thumbs brushing against your nipples as you sigh.

"I'll give an essay for you," Bucky says, his voice slightly strained. "You love that I can love you so good. You love how sexy hot I am. You love that I even  _indulge_ your absurdites."

Rocking your hips slightly to get more comfortable, you laugh, and trace up and down his arms - one thick with muscle, the other cold and smooth.

"You're not wrong," you allow.

He grins, eyes fastened on your face above him as you roll your hips again.

"Really, Buck?" you tease. "Feels like you're hard again already. This must be a record."

"Didn't ever go soft," he snaps back. "That one was for you, babe."

"Selfish of you."

But his eyes are twinkling. "What? I like to make my girl moan all pretty. 'Specially when she says my name like I'm all she has to hold onto."

"Like I said." You smile as you lean forward, lips ghosting against his and tasting the little suck of breath as you feel his heart pounding even through his chest. " _Selfish_."

Bucky tilts his head up, his lips going after yours. He catches your bottom lip between your teeth - and you relent, lowering your head more to taste him all the better with a slip of your tongue.

"Maybe it's your turn to be a little selfish," he teases, his voice hoarse.

"Maybe." But you just keep kissing him. It's just the rain on the windows, his hands all over your hips and waist as he tries to get you to move, the little grunts in his throat. "Maybe I like you whining for me," you murmur into his mouth, and he groans louder.

"C'mon, you're not gonna blueball me."

"You told me to be selfish. If I blueball you now, I'll get more loving before lunch."

"You can  _not_  blueball me and still get all your extra loving, if you ask  _nicely_."

"Hmm." A smile curling your lips, you pull away to smile coyly down at Bucky - there's a red flush in his cheeks, a crease between his brows - and a definite pout on his lips.

"Babe…" There's a hint of warning in his growl.

"Yeah?" A flutter of your eyelashes, and his growl deepens.

"C'mon!" Bucky, well, bucks his hips up, and the burst of heat from your center has you gasping - well, that's all you needed, apparently. He's laughing as you finally start to move, relieving the pressure - but you don't care.

Still sensitive from your last climax, it takes one-minute-and-seventeen-seconds until that familiar crashing wave is shuddering through you again. A moment of stillness as you throb around him painfully - Bucky is practically  _keening_  in agony - you give him a grin as you gaze down with hooded eyes at his anguished expression -

And slip off, scooting backward so that you can lower your head to taste all the briney-saltiness of the morning's activities. Bucky is squirming. So there's an opportunity to show how strong your jaw is, and to be a little selfish. Time together is rare enough that loving generally has to be a mutual experience, if you both want any satisfaction.

Bucky's metal arm is thrown over his eyes as he sucks in a ragged breath. Only a minute more, and he grunts, the powerful muscles of his thighs around you positively shuddering with release.

"There," you coo, planting a kiss on his tip - red and swollen, twitching and clearly over-stimulated - as you crawl back up to Bucky. He's practically cross-eyed, staring at you with parted lips as his hands immediately come up to cup your face.

A crashing of lips, and a moment later you're on your back again.

"Have I told you," Bucky's shaking voice is vibrating into your soul as he fervently kisses your face, everywhere. "That I love you?"

"Might've mentioned it," you tease.

"I can't imagine being with anyone else but you."

"Good to hear." Your fingers tangle in his hair, damp from sweat.

"You're just - " Bucky's eyes are shining bright, earnest and desperate as his strong arms keep you tight in this embrace. "You're everything to me."

"Ooo, that'll make Sam jealous."

A huffing laugh, and a roll of his eyes. "Shouldn't have brought it up," he sighs.

"Well, you know how absurd I am," you say be way of reminder.

A dopey smile lights up his face. "And don't you think for a minute that I forgot about your extra loving. Don't even have to ask, babe."

"Get on with it, then," you challenge. "And I don't want to hear about your  _'tongue cramp'_  again."

But Bucky is already shimmying down your body, nuzzling your breasts, tracing your navel with his tongue as you sigh, shifting more comfortably against the pillows. His grin back up at you is wicked, and inspires a very interesting set of yearning between your legs, and a fluttering in your heart.

"Don't worry babe," his voice is raspy and soft in every way, and your skin tingles. "You won't."


	41. Loose Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-reveal: Paired together on reconnaissance, Bucky expects the museum to be a cushy job. Until things go downhill, that is - and he’s forced to improvise.

The gym is pretty packed for a Saturday morning - but it's past nine, so it really shouldn't be a surprise. Bucky's just glad he'd made it there before Natasha to snatch you up as a sparring partner. For once, he wins. But he keeps that to himself. He doesn't want to jinx it - there's a mission tonight.

Bucky  _definitely_  feels like a winner watching the sweat glisten on your throat and face - you're smiling despite your panting, and he doesn't give up trying to touch you. The brisk, almost bruising touches - not exactly what he's used to, with you - but it's all he's gonna get for now. He barely even notices everyone else. Just this dance on the sparring mats, the give and take and push and pull that makes his heart beat fast, and not just from the exertion.

Jab, parry, kick. Jump, swerve, punch - dodge. You falter before regaining your balance, and Bucky is grinning as he pushes damp hair from his face.

"Don't feel bad, babe," he says in a low voice - the gym is so noisy, he's sure he won't be overheard. "It's tough to land a hit on a supersoldier."

Your lips purse as you catch a breath, hands resting on your hips. "Just for that," you say snidely. "I'm gonna stop going easy on you."

"Going easy?" Bucky bursts into laughter. " _Please_."

A smirk, now. Oh, this is promising. Shaking out your hands and rolling your shoulders, you keep your gaze on his, daring and confident.

"If there weren't people around," you say in a purr, and immediately all his hair stands on end at the glint in your eye. "I could level you in ten seconds flat."

Bucky's lips curl upward. "I don't doubt that, babe. Under the circumstances."

"Could probably even get all your clothes off with a single finger," you add.

"I'm disappointed we're not alone."

"You should be."

There's a shriek and a thud and an outpouring of laughter from somewhere across the gyms - by the weights, Bucky's sure, but he doesn't move his eyes from you. Your figure is tensing, preparing, waiting -

It doesn't take long. A split second, and he lifts an arm to stave off your renewed attack. There are no smiles in between jabs, this time. Only an adorable furrow of your brow, and Bucky has to concentrate as you take a swiping kick at his ankles. He ducks at an overhead punch, sees that your middle is unguarded, and takes it.

A shove of his shoulders, an  _oof_  from you as your wind is knocked out, and a thud as your back hits the mats. Bucky rolls off as slowly as he can without the risk of anyone noticing his hesitation. A glare sparks in your eyes as he stands back up.

"Guard your middle," he says nonchalantly.

"Guard your feet," you snark back.

 _What does that have to do with anything_ , Bucky is about to say - but before he can move you spring up and swing your legs around, knocking into his - and he falls on his behind as his wrists take the brunt of the fall.

No breakage, but the metal one creaks as he wiggles his fingers. You're on your feet again, peering down triumphantly. Bucky growls, all in good fun - he stumbles back to his feet, keeping eye contact with you as that conniving little smile he loves so much spread across your face.

"Better," he allows.

"You haven't seen  _nothing_."

No more kicks for this attack - the quarters are too close. Knees, fists, elbows - Bucky's neck is going to stiffen up from all this dodging. He's impressed anyway, and shoves an elbow down to break the trajectory of your knee towards his groin.

"No fun," you grunt, blocking a swipe with your forearm.

"Plenty fun," Bucky rasps back. "So glad you can let go with me, babe. No one else could take your hits like me and keep going."

"Steve could."

He shifts a foot back and your kick hits open air. "Bully on Steve."

You're coming in closer, now - Bucky wheezes as you land a punch in his side (a gentle punch, he'd like to think), and grab still-creaking metal wrist before he can lift it to block again. "I'm going to tell him you said that."

"You do that."

Twisting around, the metal grinds against itself as he hears a wire pop - Tony's not gonna be happy. As Bucky is frowning at his own appendage, you've let him go - another turn, another knee he blocks instinctively, and before he can do anything else besides realize how pretty your smile is, your opposite elbow is soaring at his face, and connects with a  _thud._

Stars. All he sees are stars. Ringing in his ears. His knee cracks as he falls forward, and through the daze he feels your hands are on his face, hears your voice babbling,

"Bucky! Are you okay? I didn't realize I hit you so hard - "

"You didn't," he insists, voice thick as he feels a trickle of blood reaching his top lip. Tentatively he dabs it away, your face slowly coming into focus as he winces. "I can't believe it," he mumbles, sinking into a sitting position as you crouch beside him, your lip caught between your teeth in worry. "You took me down."

A giggle. "You let me."

"You  _distracted_  me. You made me horny and I wasn't focusing."

"But that's just normal," you say with a laugh. "You're always horny for me."

" _Shh_ , babe, someone might hear."

With the racket going on around the gym? Unlikely. But Bucky refrains from tugging you into his lap like he very much wants to, and lets you push his sweaty hair behind his ears.

"Well, that was definitely hot," he says. "I never knew an elbow to the face would spring me a boner."

"Oh,  _please_  - " But your eyes drift down to his gym shorts, and your sudden laugh disguises Bucky as he shifts his position to hide his...condition.

"Hey, Bucky. 28. You guys okay?"

Uh oh - Natasha. Bucky glances up - yep, she's standing to the side of the mat with a little frown on her face. She's been on the treadmills, he thinks. There's a towel over her shoulder.

"Nice one, 28," Nat says with a nod. "Bucky, stop bleeding over the equipment. It's unsanitary."

"I'll help you out," you say to Bucky, hoisting his arm over your shoulder. He lets his metal arm hang in front of his crotch, pretending it got severed enough that he can't move it. "My fault, anyway."

"It sure is," he murmurs into your ear as you help him off the mats, and across the gym. Natasha has turned away, and no one is paying the least bit attention. "I'm expecting the full nurse treatment from you, babe."

"The  _full_  treatment?" you tease. "Catheter and everything?"

Bucky pulls a grimace. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, are you sure? You said the  _full_  treatment."

"I meant head to toe."

The door swings shut behind the pair of you, cutting off the noise. In a very soft voice, you reply, "Maybe you should show me what you meant."

A pause. "Does the first aid station have a door that locks?"

"Yep."

"Good."

Bucky's nose is still a little tender by that evening, but he's past noticing. It's been too nice a day - the gym, the sex in the first aid room, nicking some of Sam's lunch and then relaxing in the Tower all afternoon (you'd been there, too - Bucky had almost been able to ignore Clint snoring on the couch), and now, he's been paired with you to recon an art museum.

He can  _almost_  pretend it's a date.

"The radiation detector should still be able to work through the glass," Stark is saying through the coms, as Bucky loops an arm around your waist and the delectable black dress you're wearing as he leads you through the door into the bright lights of the venue. "We don't think the museum has any clue about the smuggling. Just the seller and buyers."

"Are they here tonight?" Clint asks, staticky from the roof. You accept a flute of champagne from a passing tray, and Bucky does likewise, putting on a sloppy smile - which is easy, tonight.

"Haven't seen them," Steve reports from the valet's station.

"There's plenty of criminals here anyway, I'm sure," Natasha adds dryly, with the squeak of wheels on the floor as she moves a cart of dishware.

"Hey, be nice to Barnes," Sam says indignantly. He's watching from the Quinjet on a nearby rooftop with Stark, this time. "He can't help it, Nat."

Your hand squeezes Bucky around the middle, and he grins down at you. Really, it's a fantastic dress - when the mission is over, he plans on following you home and getting a little up close and personal, sliding that skirt out of the way to admire all your sleek glory underneath -

"The  _radiation_ ," Tony interrupts. "28, Barnes - we buy that you're there as a dating couple. Now find the uranium."

Your chin tightens ever so slightly. Hopefully Sam and Tony can see the irritation in your eyes. But your fingers just thread through Bucky's anyway, and he squeezes back.

"Try the statue at the end," Sam chimes in. "It looks way too nice to be a thousand years old. Much like Tin-man, though to be fair he's only a hundred."

"I think Sam's jealous," you purr, leaning slightly into Bucky as he guides you around a glass case with a set of figures inside. The bracelet on your empty arm, swinging slightly, is buzzing - no radiation. A few steps around other tuxedo-clad people, some waiters, and women in evening gowns. Bucky isn't really looking where he's going.

"I am a little jealous," Sam admits over the coms. "I brought Twizzlers but Stark confiscated them."

"They get the dashboard sticky!" Tony exclaims.

"I haven't seen anyone interesting," Clint complains.

"I just saw a mouse in the kitchens," Natasha reports.

The bracelet gives a single beep. Bucky whirls you around slightly, holding you a little more intimately than he probably should in public, with an arm around your waist from behind - but he wants to make sure everyone else is too uncomfortable by this display to notice him studying the turquoise necklace behind the glass case.

"Getting the readings," Stark says briskly. "Stay there just a moment longer - "

There are some angry mutterings in Bucky's ear - he glances around, mapping exits - by the door leading to the downstairs kitchen where Natasha is, a trio of security guards appear to be arguing. Absently your fingers tap on Bucky's arm, and he notices a glare sent his way.

"Uh oh, I'm picking up something on the museum frequency," Stark says. "28, they got a reading off the device in the bracelet - we need to scram, they're calling in backup - "

The guards are stalking across the museum now, a little brutally for the tinkling piano music and the soft giggles and perfume. No, there's no reason for a fight here - even as you tense in his half-embrace, even as Natasha reports leaving the kitchen to scram - Bucky nuzzles his nose behind your ear before whirling you around, dipping you back slightly to plant a  _very_  thorough kiss on your lips.

Silence, on the coms. The guards' footsteps have stopped.

Always works.

There's a smile on your lips; Bucky can feel it. There's a  _yuck_  from Sam. He doesn't care.

As soon as the footsteps retreat, he pulls back - your eyes are shining brightly in the reflection of the overhead lights, lips plump and the amusement in your expression utterly beautiful. Your arms tighten around his neck, and he tugs you back up to stand straight.

"Well, that worked," Stark says after a startled moment. "Still, you might consider booking it while you can."

"Let's go find somewhere private," you purr, just loud enough to reach the few people standing closest. Bucky grins.

"After you, babe."

"Just parked a Lamborghini," Steve says, a little breathless in the coms as Bucky takes your arm to swerve from the museum. "What'd I miss?"

"We got to see Bucky's tongue down 28's throat," Sam reports.

"It wasn't that bad," Tony sighs.

" _That's_  what that noise was?" Clint asks, horrified.

"I'm reaching the jet," Natasha reports. "And come on, you guys, don't be immature - we've all done some snogging on missions. Best diversion tactic there is."

Down the steps, into the cool night air. The getaway car is parked a block away, and your strides match Bucky's. After a moment, Steve appears from around the corner, and falls into step on your other side. A moment of thought, and Bucky lets his hold around your waist drop.

Can't pretend anymore.

The engines of the jet are already whirring - everyone is on board at last as Bucky brings up the rear, and he can hear the end of a conversation between Tony and someone on his phone, reporting the uranium and the dealer's identities.

That'll be a mission for tomorrow, most likely. When the security's been beefed up from the dealers noticing suspicious people hanging around. But Bucky keeps his lips buttoned shut as he slides into an empty seat by Clint, regretfully eyeing that sleek black dress as you sit by Natasha.

It's a shame the recon is over, really.

"I don't know why you're so upset, Sammy," you point out as the jet starts to lift into the air. "Bucky and I had to watch you make out with Natasha over the video feeds, remember?"

"It's no big deal," Natasha says again. "I'm pretty sure I've kissed everyone here on a mission. Why do we even have to talk about this?"

Silence.

"You haven't kissed me," Tony says, a little miffed.

"I like Pepper too much. And you're always in a helmet. Not really the time for subtlety and misdirection."

Bucky's face is burning - he can see your curious eyes drift over to him. Then a little smile lights up your face, and he blinks. Wait a second -

"Yeah, Sam. Remember Thailand?" you tease.

"Don't remind me," Sam grumbles.

"I feel a little better now," Steve chimes in. "I thought Nat just kissed me - but if she's done it to everyone else, I ain't special."

"Didn't need Natasha to know that," Bucky remarks.

"I knew Nat kissed Steve and Clint, but  _you_ , Bucky?" you interrupt. "When was that?"

"Petrograd, 1996," Natasha says dryly. "Let's not go into detail."

"I haven't kissed anyone on a mission, ever," Tony cuts in. "This doesn't seem fair."

"No one can kiss you in a suit, Tony," you say with a laugh. "But look at it this way - give Nat a peck, and by proxy you've kissed the rest of us, too."

"I remember that day when 28 and Clint were in Seattle at the Farmer's Market," Natasha says, a dreamy note in her voice now. "I think that's the first time I ever saw Nick Fury gag."

"So we overdid it that time," you admit, as Bucky's mouth falls open -  _you've_ kissed  _Clint_ , too? "But I had to get to that bomb and it was like, five feet away and the bad guys would've noticed if I just jumped on it; they weren't watching the kissing and we got the bomb - "

"Yeah, in my  _back_ ," Clint enunciates.

"Wait a second," Steve says slowly. "When I kissed 28, I got a machine gun in my back. Bruised up and everything."

Bucky's eyes widen in shock -  _now_  you're not meeting his gaze - huh! Kissed his best friend and never even mentioned it, not once -

"Improvisation requires some sacrifices," you say airily. "Just be glad we didn't get shot."

"We got shot at on that freightliner, remember, 28?" Natasha asks with a laugh. Finally, out of the front windows ahead - Bucky can see Stark Tower. As if this hasn't been the longest conversation of his life.

"I remember. And I remember breaking Agent 19's thumbs for being such a pervert about it. Only time Fury ever threatened to write me up."

"Should've thrown 19 overboard," Nat says regretfully. "Like  _he's_  never had to deflect in an emergency before, that jerk."

"I want to know this story," Sam says.

"No, you don't," Clint replies.

"So are we going back to the museum later to extract the uranium, or…?" Steve asks.

 _Good one, Steve_ , Bucky thinks to himself as his jaw ticks with irritation.  _No more of this talk about my girlfriend kissing everyone else._

"Yeah, Fury's sending in a specialized science division team to brief us tomorrow," Stark says, as the jet begins to lower onto the landing pad. "So, see you all bright and early. We don't want to wait too long or the museum will just add more security."

 _Exactly_  what Bucky was thinking.

The party breaks up in the Tower; nearly everyone off to bed, but Clint to the kitchens for a snack and Tony to the labs. Bucky keeps his beady eyes on your back as you unload some of your issued gear to take back downstairs - and that glimpse of your thigh holster, beneath your dress.

He yanks the bowtie from his throat, as Sam's footsteps are the last to disappear, and you and he are the only ones left in the common area. That beautiful curve of your body as you reach up to shake out your hair - you know what you're doing, and when Bucky stalks up next to you, he sees the smirk on your lips and the glint in your eyes.

"You've kissed Steve, huh?" he growls, his hands finding the curve of your waist. " _And_  Clint  _and_ Sam  _and_ Natasha? Babe. I'm horrified. And those are only the ones I  _know_  by name."

"I'm a secret agent; that sort of stuff happens," you point out, your whisper a breath against his lips as you press yourself close to him. He's getting dizzy off your perfume, your presence… "For the record, you're the only one I  _keep_  kissing."

A pause. "I'll take that."

"Now, do you want to follow me home," you purr, your fingers threading through his hair. "Or do you want to invite me to your room for some  _quiet_  loving? Or a closet? It's getting late - the Tower's empty on the lower levels. We could do it anywhere."

Yep, he's definitely dizzy. Already fingering the zipper, he nearly groans at your hands on his chest. "Wherever I can take that dress off of you, babe."

A giggle spills from your lips, and Bucky dips his head to kiss you - for real this time, but with no less passion.

The dress ends up on the floor of the common area, and Bucky is fervently grateful Clint takes out his hearing aids after 10 p.m.


	42. Rendezvous for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too many missions, too much time apart - but what can Bucky do about that? - pre-reveal

The buzz of your phone cuts through the post-coital haze shimmering in the bedroom. Forcing his eyes back open, Bucky gives a groan as you squirm away to make a grab for the nightstand.

"Just ignore it, babe," he says raggedly, pulling on your waist - but it's futile.

"Can't," you sigh. "It's Fury."

"Boo on Fury."

"I'll be sure to tell him you said that." A wink over your shoulder, and Bucky's stomach does funny turns as he can't help but smile back - and then you're on your feet, the bed beside him is empty, and he gives a monstrous and pitiful sigh, his arms utterly empty.

He closes his eyes again just to keep the moment close a little longer - it's been a long few weeks, with you on missions and him on different missions and schedules just not cooperating...this is the first time Bucky has been alone with you in twenty-three days. Not that he's counting.

 _Why_ did Fury have to call  _now_?

"I'll be right there, sir," your voice says from the bathroom, and Bucky frowns into the pillow. He does  _not_  like the sound of that. And when your footsteps return, and he hears the clatter of your phone on the nightstand, he lifts his head to scowl at you as best he can.

"Be where?" Bucky asks crossly, as a grin lights up your tired expression. "You shouldn't be going anywhere. You just got back from Madrid four hours ago. You're off duty, babe. The only place you should be, is  _here_." And he accentuates his point by pulling back the covers of your bed, patting the empty space beside him with a pointed look.

You laugh, and it gives him hope - but then you turn away to start rummaging through your closet.

"I'm off duty for the Avengers," you explain over your shoulder. "But I'm on call for SHIELD this weekend. And Fury knows I've been busy; he wouldn't call me in if he didn't need me."

"Uh huh," Bucky says, thoroughly skeptical.

"It's true. Fury knows the danger of a worn-out agent."

Clean underwear, and a clean bra. Bucky groans aloud - loudly and dramatically enough to make you giggle more. And when the black, long-sleeve SHIELD-issue shirt goes over your head, he nearly pretends to start crying.

It's been a  _long_  twenty-three days.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever," he sighs, as your combat pants go on next.

"It's been a few weeks, Buck, that's all…" Belt next, with empty sheaths awaiting armament.

"Should've told Fury to call for Steve instead," Bucky grumbles.

"Steve's in Orlando on a different assignment."

"Well - well - " His spluttering is cut off as he watches you buckle the holster around your thigh - his physical response to this sight is a little painful and a little bittersweet. Shifting beneath the covers, Bucky props his head up on his hand, and gives yet another sigh. "You know what we need?" he muses. "A vacation. Just us. We can go somewhere. Anywhere."

"A mission for two?" you tease back, glancing over with those sparkling eyes.

"No. A  _vacation_."

A snicker. "Never heard of it."

"Don't even pretend, babe," Bucky growls. "Just you and me. No responsibilities. No phone calls, no Fury or Steve or Sam…"

"Do we get food, at least?" Your weight sinks into the bed as you slide socks onto your feet, and Bucky reaches over to pinch your waist - you yelp, and start to laugh.

"'Course we do. And water. Plenty of water."

"Well, it sounds lovely, though short on details." That smile is lighting up your face something extra beautiful as you stand, turning to lean over Bucky to kiss his pouting lips. He grunts, and you giggle kissing him again.

"Stay," he tries again, yanking a finger into your belt to tug you closer.

"Sooner I go, the sooner I can come back," you murmur against his lips, nose brushing against his. Your eyes are bright and beyond the exhaustion he sees, there's that warm fondness that makes Bucky grin despite himself.

"You gonna leave me here alone?" he teases.

"Oh please - like you're gonna steal from my gun stash."

"I might."

"There's better stuff at the Tower."

"But it's not  _yours_."

"Then you'd better not start light-fingering my cutlery, either."

"There are other things I'd prefer to  _finger_." WIth his lips pressed close to keep from laughing, Bucky's hand moves between your legs - but you just giggle again, and give his hair a solid tug.

"Ouch!" He glowers as he rubs at the sore spot, but you've already moved out of range as you make for the door.

"Don't wait up for me," you call back, your smile fading slightly as you study him for a moment - Bucky wiggles his eyebrows, and your laugh echoes in the apartment as you leave. Bucky's head plops back into the pillows in resignation, and he tries to ignore the despair creeping in. It's not right to be here without you. As much as he misses you, your space is extra empty, too...

Too many missions. Too much time spent apart.

The idea of a getaway hadn't been half bad…

A few minutes of brainstorming later, and Bucky finally has the energy to crawl out of bed, make it in a hurry (you're very particular about that sort of thing), pull back on his shorts, and retreat to the living room where he had discarded his phone upon entry. And t-shirt. And socks.

The day gets brighter, with a little more excitement - a little more to look forward to.

Bucky's good at planning.

The next briefing by Stark is thirty-six hours later, in the waning afternoon as dusk settles over New York through the massive windows in the conference room. Bucky is barely listening - he's already heard all the gossip from Sam and Natasha after their return from Detroit, and he's not the least bit worried about Steve still in Orlando. Clint is nodding off - Bucky would be doing the same, if his master plan wasn't about to play out.

"So, that takes us up to this afternoon, and we have twelve hours until that boat docks in Cape Town," Stark is saying, strolling around the table with his hands in his pockets. Bucky's eyes are on yours as your gaze follows Tony - but your eyes are sparkling, and Bucky knows that's meant for him.

"Sorry, Sam and Nat - but I'm sending you two after it with Clint."

"Tony, we just got back," Natasha protests, rubbing her eyes.

"I know," Tony sighs. "I was going to send Bucky, but he submitted a request for 'time off,'" - this coupled with air quotations and an eye roll - "just a few days ago, apparently. My secretary told me about it today. He must've known I'd send him chasing dirty guns across the Atlantic."

Bucky gets a few glares, but he doesn't care.

"Send 28," Sam suggests.

A pause. A slight downturn of your lips. "I can go," you say at last, but your reluctance is in every word. "I mean, I've had one full night's sleep one day this week. That's more than Nat and Sam combined."

"Fury mentioned something about needing you next week," Tony admits, as Sam gives a sigh of relief. Natasha leans over to nudge Clint, who snorts awake, and a phone buzzes beneath the table.

"Sorry, that's me." You reach into your pants to pull out your phone. Everything is quiet for a moment - curious gazes from everyone, no matter how rude. Tony checks his fingernails. "Um, Stark," you say in a small voice. "My - my grandmother passed away a few hours ago."

A distinct, awkward shifting in the tension of the room. A sniffle from you.

"Nat, you're back on the case," Tony says briskly, in a very Tony-fashion. "Sam too. You have five hours 'til launch - go sleep. Clint, you too. 28, I'll prep you a jet - "

"No, no," you tell him. Your voice is thick - Bucky tries not to grin as you rub your cheek. "It's...only a few hours away. I'll drive."

Tony shrugs.

"Are you gonna offer me one of your nice cars, or?" you add on with a flicker of a smile.

"Good to know you're grieving," Stark deadpans. "Take whatever you want. I'll let Fury know you're going to be out of town, if you need me to."

"No, I should be the one to let him know. Sorry, Tony. Sorry, Nat." There's an unapologetic grimace on your face as you push your chair away to stand.

"What about me?" Sam asks. You stick out your tongue in his direction. Bucky smothers a snort.

"See you all later - " as you disappear through the door, and Bucky watches until your back is gone. The door swings shut, and Tony rubs his temples.

"We need a break," he sighs.

Bucky just grins.

It's past nine when he finally saunters down the stairs (needed the exercise), and with a backpack over his shoulder and the memory of Sam chewing him out for taking time off when "the Avengers needed him the most," Bucky whistles a bit to himself as he strides out of the Tower, and onto the sidewalk.

Two blocks south, one block west. It's not too busy in Manhattan, for a weeknight, and Bucky ignores the funny stares as he waits on a street corner. He doesn't have to wait long - soon a sleek, dark purple car pulls up, and your beaming smile peers out as the window lowers.

"Hey, there," you tease, and Bucky can't help laughing already. "Looking for a place to stay tonight?"

"Why, you offering a good price?" he jokes back, slinging off his backpack to shove in the backseat.

"I can offer you the  _best_ night of your life."

"Now that sounds like an offer a fellow can't refuse."

He can hear your laughter as he strides around to the passenger side. It's cramped, but he fits, and leans over for a kiss in greeting.

"For the record, my grandmother died seven years ago," you inform him, merging back into traffic.

"I know."

"If Natasha has read up on me as much as you have, she'll be suspicious."

"I think she has bigger problems," Bucky chortles, wrapping his metal fingers around yours on the gear shift. "And also for the record - I'm glad we aren't getting sent to Cape Town."

"Oh, I agree," you say with a sigh. "I'm not sure I even realized how exhausted I am until Tony wanted me to go."

"A ' _thank you, Bucky_ ' would not go amiss," he teases.

There's a glint in your eyes, reflecting the traffic lights all around. And your smirk - Bucky loves it so much. "I'll be showing you my thanks  _all_  weekend," you coo. "Now, give me the directions to this place you rented, or we'll end up in Canada."

"I wouldn't mind getting a little lost with you," Bucky purrs back, making a show of leaning over into you, an arm over your shoulders as he punches an address into the GPS.

"I packed a gun or two," you laugh. "We'll get stopped at the border. And I don't even  _want_  to know what illegal gadgets they'd find in Stark's car. That wouldn't be laying low, now would it?"

"You're right. As always."

"I know."

A few moments pass as you navigate through traffic - the city is fading fast behind, and your eyes flit over to the screen.

"Four hours?" you exclaim. "You trying to exhaust me before we even get there?"

"I can drive, babe," Bucky says soothingly. "You can nap."

A slanted, daring gaze. "I can think of better ways to pass the time," you say lightly.

"Oh? And what's that?" His fingers creep over to your thigh, giving a slight squeeze before tracing innocent patterns upward. A slight catch of breath - and then a giggle.

"I think you got the idea," you tease.

It's 2 a.m. before Bucky pulls into the gravel driveway leading to the cabin he'd rented, Stark's car might need an interior wash, and you're dozing in the passenger seat with your shirt still riding up, showing off your deliciously smooth skin.

He leaves you there, eyes still closed, as he opens up the little cabin - it's small and quaint and clean, and the nearest neighbor is two miles away. That had been a selling point. That, and the lousy cell phone service out in the boonies. He turns on some dim lights, just so it's not pitch black - and jogs back out to bring you in.

Even with the forest looming all around, crisp pine and old leaves scenting the air, Bucky can see the stars twinkling above. Softer, gentler lights than New York - and there are crickets and cicadas instead of honks and horns. Your head droops against his shoulder as he carries you inside - eyes shut, but there's a drowsy smile lifting your lips.

"Good service," you mumble, as he carefully doesn't knock your head against the doorframe.

"It's supposed to be," Bucky snarks back in a murmur. "It's a vacation."

"That means we get to sleep in, right?"

"Of course, babe."

"Good."

It's 2:33 a.m. when Bucky's satisfied with the security of the place (vacation or not - can't stop being an agent), and he crawls into the fresh, clean sheets beside your warm body, wrapping you up close and letting out a breath as about a thousand worries leave his shoulders.

The only worry left is one he's happy to bear: giving you the best weekend of your life.

* * *

It starts to rain at about five a.m.

Roused from slumber, Bucky stirs a bit, and tightens his hold around your waist as he buries his nose deeper into the crook of your neck. The light through the curtained windows is only about one shade softer than black, and the cabin shudders a little bit with a gust of wind. You don't stir - and he dozes.

The bedroom is about four shades later when Bucky is drawn back into consciousness again - his lips part as he sucks in a heady breath, realizing with a sensuous twist of his stomach that your backside is squirming against his front, and he's  _hard_.

"Babe," he growls, taking a nip at your ear. "I was  _sleeping_."

"Not  _all_ of you, apparently."

He can't help chuckling along with your bleary giggles. Then he pushes back, and a sigh slips from your lips, and Bucky's hand disappears further beneath the sheets to tug down some underwear. Two pairs, to be precise.

Tucked up around you as a distant peal of thunder rolls through the dreary sky outside; the rain on the windows picks up with a  _whoosh_  as more wind tries to invade the cabin - but it's no use. The only moving air in the bedroom are his breaths; and yours - and your tilt your head slightly back so that Bucky can kiss your lips.

It's perfect.

The sheets rustle, you moan in your throat, and Bucky grunts slightly with each thrust. It doesn't take long - only a few moments later, with a flash of lightning through the curtains - and a private sort of explosion is shared between the sheets, ending in little chuckles and murmurs and gentle kissing.

Like he said. Perfect.

He dozes again afterwards, and so do you, still tangled and hearts still racing.

"Oh,  _no -_ "

Woken up  _again_  - Bucky blinks his eyes opens to see your bare back, bent over the side of the bed with your phone in hand.

"Whassisit," he mumbles, stretching out with a yawn.

"My phone is dead," you say mournfully.

"Good. Doesn't matter. We're not on call."

A massively dramatic sigh, and Bucky snorts to himself. " **I just can't function without you** ," you whimper, and he rolls his eyes. " **You make life make sense. Please, please don't go.** I - I can't live without you…"

"Oh,  _stop it_." Thoroughly irritated, he rolls onto his side to grab you around the waist - you yelp, and your phone falls to the floor with a clatter. "You," Bucky mutters into your ear. "Are here for  _me_. Now come back here, I want to put some hickeys on you. Mark my territory. Because I don't get to do that often enough."

"Is this your idea of vacation, Bucky?" you tease, but turn around to crawl back in beside him. Eyes sparking mischief - he grins.

"Yes," he says flatly.

"Didn't you promise food? Because I'm  _starving_."

"Hickeys first - food later." And his lips find your throat, and you're melting into his arms - and there are no more protests.

By mid-morning Bucky makes it to the shower, while you yawn and stretch and go off in search of food - he takes his time in the hot water, enjoying the sensation of having nowhere to be and nothing to do (besides you, but that's not a sacrifice.) With a courtesy pair of briefs covering his modesty, he wanders around the cabin and into the kitchen, grinning at the sight of you.

Wearing a loose shirt of his and your own underwear (fits better, anyway), as well as a pair of socks that come up over your knees - you stand at the massive window in the dining area, steaming mug in hand, as you gaze out at the deluge pattering on the glass. He sneaks up behind, and wraps himself around you.

"That smells good," Bucky murmurs, and makes a pass at your tea - but you yank it away, glaring back at him.

"Yours is steeping in the kitchen," you tell him, a little severely. "You don't get to dehydrate me."

"Is that a challenge?"

" _No!_ " But you're laughing anyway, and he gets an elbow to the ribs. Bucky grunts, and his hold around your waist, he presses his cheek to the top of your head, gazing out the window as you take a sip of your tea.

"I had so much planned for today," he says with a sigh. "Hiking. Having sex in the woods. Oh, I rented a motorcycle too - I thought it would be fun to scope out the town. Have sex on the motorcycle somewhere off the side of the road."

You choke, and splutter, and he gets a few warm splatters on his face. Bucky doesn't mind, and laughs as he dips his head to kiss behind your ear.

"What, you don't like my plan?" he says, pretending to be offended.

"It's a pretty good plan," you allow. Your head tilts to the side, giving him better access. He likes that, and takes full advantage. "But I'm beginning to wonder if you've kidnapped me to keep me here as your sex slave."

Bucky chortles. "Complaining?"

"Not at all." Your eyes are sparkling, and Bucky grins. "But - " you add. "I think it should be the other way around."

"What, me as your slave?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Takes Bucky about a second to decide. "Whatever you wanna to do me, ma'am. I'm yours."

"I  _like_  the sound of that," you coo.

"What do you want me to do, huh?" he nibbles your earlobe, making you scrunch your nose. "Give you a lap dance? Let you sit on my face? You wanna drive the motorcycle, huh, babe? I'll let you. Don't even have to ask."

With a laugh you twist in his arms, flinging your free arm over his shoulder to pull him close. Bucky grins, pressing his hips into yours as your eyes dance. "I have an idea," you purr, and your chest is pressed to his. Oh, this is good. He quirks a brow, and waits. "A  _great_  idea."

"Tell me," he says hoarsely.

"I - want -  _you_  - " your fingers walk across his shoulder, to his neck and into his hair. Goosebumps trail along behind, and Bucky bites back a groan. Your lips curl into that special smug smile that's just for him, and you whisper, so low that he has to bend his ear to hear - "to make me  _breakfast_."

He groans aloud. "Babe…"

"You said whatever I wanted!"

"Fine.  _Fine_." Rolling his eyes, Bucky pulls away - and he glares a little, too - but you're unrepentant and clearly amused. "I'll make you breakfast, babe. You got an order for me?"

"Yeah, I want eggs and toast. And yogurt."

"You'd better hope the refrigerator is stocked."

"Oh, it is. I checked." A dimple forms beside your mouth, and Bucky dips down to kiss it. A sweet, herbal taste that's just so  _you_  - so special and wonderful and has his heart doing funny little flips in his chest. But he just shakes his head.

"Fine, I'm on it," he says with a long-suffering sigh. Winding his fingers through yours, he pulls you along into the kitchen. "But on one condition."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I wanna eat you out while the eggs are cooking."

Your warm laugh echoes in the cabin, and despite the storm outside - Bucky surmises that the weekend is going to go extraordinary well, no matter what.


End file.
